


A Series of Unfortunate Collisions

by Scourge of Nemo (Disguise_of_Carnivorism)



Series: The Consequences of Being Seen [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bounty Hunter Reality TV Stars, Alternate Universe - Modern with Aliens, Angst with a Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Rival Bounty Hunters, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28825062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disguise_of_Carnivorism/pseuds/Scourge%20of%20Nemo
Summary: Din Djarin is a bounty hunter desperately trying to make a few extra bucks by streaming his bounties on the holonet. Boba Fett is a veteran hunter with a cult following returning to the holos after 10 years out of the game.After running into each other on the job, Boba proposes a scheme: stage a rivalry to make more money. For Grogu and the covert, Din can't refuse.They end up having more fun than anyone expected. But things do start to get complicated.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Series: The Consequences of Being Seen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160531
Comments: 257
Kudos: 396





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a romcom where Boba is basically Dog the Bounty Hunter. 
> 
> This is a modern-esque setting that pares the galaxy down from planets to a country, but keeps multiple species and futuristic tech. There’s no 1:1 timeline comparison; I’ve mishmashed characters and elements to my liking. You could call this mid-season 2, roughly, in terms of character development. The biggest difference is that there are imperial remnants, but Gideon is not (yet) a factor, so they're less effective.
> 
> Updates weekly sometime between Th and Sun.

Din's day has gone from mediocre, to bad, to expensively disastrous, to possibly deadly, all in very short order.

Now he's about to maybe die, and he barely has time to feel depressed about the lack of footage. The bounty had hooked a stupidly lucky shot straight at the backup cam droid, shattered the lens down the center. If he gets out of this alive, it’ll be a painful, expensive replacement. 

And Grogu’s probably watching a blank holo stream at home, terrified.

_Fuck._

“Not so brave without an audience, eh?” sneers the bulky Twi’lek. His blaster wavers at Din’s neck, in the uncovered spot between his helmet and pauldrons. 

Din doesn’t have time for this. It’s past Grogu’s bedtime. 

His sniper rifle is well out of reach, kicked against the wall after a moment of poorly-timed clumsiness mid-struggle. But there’s an aerosol can lying on the floor nearby, with Arasuum-knows-what in it. And Din still has a lighter on his belt.

 _Fuck it_. 

“Actually,” he starts slowly, trying to reach for the can unnoticed, “here’s the thing. Without an audience, I can end this much, much faster.” 

The Twi’lek’s eyes have a second to widen before he’s engulfed in flaming hairspray. Then Din’s up and on him, twisting his arms behind his back and pushing him to the floor. Din gives him a few good rolls and a couple of pats to put out the flames — just singed, not burnt.

With the bounty neutralized, Din collects his rifle and sends a quick ping to Grogu: _OK. Some trouble. Home soon._ Then he begins the long, slow journey back to the Marshal. 

* * *

“You look rough, Mando,” says Dune, when she’s done booking the skip. 

Din grunts. She’s probably right. Something on him smells vaguely singed, and he’s sweaty (near-death adrenaline rush will do that), and he feels like he could collapse on the floor right there, then sleep for a week. Meanwhile, she looks together as ever even at 3 a.m., armor well-maintained and spotless, as she hands him a stack of credits. 

“Keep some of this and buy something nice for yourself this time, maybe,” she says.

“Sure,” says Din. They both know he absolutely will not. Even between the Holonet stream revenue, Karga’s dwindling extra-legal bounties, and the New Republic’s more official jobs, he barely has enough to support him and the kid, much less send a portion to the covert every month. 

But he’d keep doing it. 

“Probably going to have to buy a new cam droid,” he groans, loosening up a bit.

Dune gives him a sympathetic look. “Go get some sleep.” 

He’s turning to leave when a new form darkens the door. _Mandalorian_. Din freezes where he’s standing. 

The man’s short, broad, _built_. Walks like he’s ready to kill. Din can spot at least seven weapons in plain view, and no doubt there are more. Not someone Din would want to get in a fight with, even with his height advantage. 

His armor's beskar alloy, not pure, but it's clearly well-loved — probably from a long family line. The paint is impeccable: obsessively applied, neat lines, fresh, free of even the slightest nick. The nondescript gray-green could mean anything, but the lines of red in the helmet said _honoring a parent_ loud and clear. Din can’t count the killstripes on the back of the helmet, but there’s sure enough of them to be alarming, whatever they stand for. 

There’s a small crew behind him, fully kitted out. Boom mics, portable lighting droids, actually nice cam droids, both handheld models and remote-operated droids. One item’s probably worth more than Din’s entire (now-busted) rig. Din steps out of the shot instinctively and angles his helmet at the floor. 

“Marshal!” booms the newcomer. 

“Fett,” she responds, voice flat. 

“I’ve got a few for you,” Fett says, then dips back out. The camera crew slips in behind him. A blank-faced black-clad woman seems to be in charge, though her posture says more bounty-hunting backup than production expert. She directs the crew with sharp gestures. 

Fett’s back now, dragging three yuzzum in durasteel cuffs. Their fur is matted and bloody, and they’re grimacing with their crooked teeth and jostling each other. One of them tries to break away, and Fett grabs them by the back of the neck. "Hey! Watch it. I get paid whether you're dead or alive," he growls, pushing them to the others.

The cams track his every move from multiple angles. He's not putting on much of a show, just quietly herding the skips — but Din suspects he doesn't need flare to capture an audience's attention. There's a quiet expertise in his movements; he isn't just keeping the skips in line, he's also guiding them back to the center of the shot without blocking the camera's view. _Professional._

The guy doesn’t even acknowledge him; it’s like he’s not in the room.

Din's impressed despite himself. It's nothing so obvious a viewer would notice, which probably makes it _more_ impressive. 

Din _really_ doesn't care enough to stand here and watch, but he's pretty sure he missed the window to slip out without getting caught on camera. He doesn't really want to know what this guy does to people who mess up his angles. 

Dune glares directly at the largest camera as she books the skips and metes out Fett's payment. 

An assistant leads the skips away. 

“You’re done for today,” Fett says, without looking at his crew. He takes off his helmet.

Din tenses and looks away. Not everyone follows a Creed as stringent as his — clearly, since the man just took off his helmet in front of half a dozen cam droids — but that doesn't mean he's comfortable looking at other Mandalorians' faces. Means more to him than it does to them. 

Fett wipes sweat off his forehead. His hand is bare now, too. Strong. Tattooed, designs unclear. Din catches sight of scars across the back of Fett's head, just visible under the shortest parts of his close-shorn hair, before he looks back at the ceiling. 

"Before you go… Karga's got something you'll probably want."

"Oh? Cavorting with those outside the law, Marshal?"

Dune ignores the job, and instead ducks her head and drops her voice. Din can’t hear what she’s saying.

Fett breathes in quickly. He looks frozen, rooted to the spot. Finally, he croaks, “Thanks.” 

Din half wants to stay and hear the rest. But the camera crew has finally trickled out, and he’s envisioning Grogu at home, stressed out of his mind when Din’s camera feed went down, and probably still awake and out of bed and eating who-knows-what, instead of cooperating with Peli. 

The last thing he hears is Dune, a warning in her voice: “You _really_ , _really_ don’t want to kill anyone associated with these people.” 

Wow, nope. _So_ not Din’s business. He’s got a kid to feed. 

With one last glance behind him at the new Mandalorian, Din slips out the door. 

* * *

“Ir-res- _sponsible_!” Peli hisses at him as soon as he’s closed the apartment door behind him. “Leaving your kid like this, wondering what happened to you!” 

“Where is he?” 

“Asleep, no thanks to _you_ and your bare-minimum communication!” 

Din tries to shush her with his hands. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”

But she’s on a roll. “Have fun convincing him you’re not dead. Also, you were supposed to be home two hours ago, so that’ll be 10 credits an hour, plus overtime.” Peli puts her hand out and makes grabby fingers.

Din sighs and breaks off a handful of credits. “Keep the extra.”

He barely pays attention as she shuffles out of the apartment and he locks up behind her. Now that Peli’s not shouting loudly enough to make his entire head throb, everything _else_ in his body hurts. 

Din limps to the door of their shared room, takes a deep breath, and steels himself. The kid is wide awake, sitting up in the pram, huge eyes glinting in the dark. They’re narrowed at him.

 _Of course. Great_. 

“Hey, kid,” Din whispers. “Sorry about that. Just a little —” 

Grogu turns his head and ears away, a clear dismissal. Fair — Din had gotten in all sorts of scrapes before, with and without Grogu, but the cam droid had never cut out like that before. And if Din wasn’t around… he didn’t know exactly what had happened to Grogu before, but he knew it was bad. Had left scars, probably, even if the kid didn’t speak. The Jedi had said as much. 

They weren’t on the run anymore, but that didn’t mean Grogu felt safe. 

Din sighs again. “Grogu…” The kid’s ears twitch, but he’s not budging. “Sure. I’m just going to…” 

_Dank ferrik_ , he’s so tired. Din heads the bathroom. The Twi’lek from earlier had knocked something into his head, a bit. Some blood, probably no concussion. The water runs brown for a few moments when he turns on the tap. He washes his face best he can, avoiding looking himself in the eye in the medicine cabinet’s cracked mirror. 

Getting all the armor off for a shower seems like an impossible undertaking right now. Din stumbles back to his room and falls face first onto the bed wearing full beskar. “Night, kid,” he says. Sleep grabs him in seconds. 

* * *

Din rolls out of bed in his armor, absentmindedly feeds Grogu, tinkers with the cam droid, then heads out the door with the kid in a sling behind his cloak. Grogu’s only marginally less frosty today, but he cooperates.

Every single part of Din’s body feels bruised, but he still doesn’t have enough credits to cover food for the covert’s foundlings _and_ pay his apartment’s electricity bill. Foundlings first. Then keeping the lights on. 

Thank goodness the cam droid isn’t _completely_ broken — it turns on and records a functional picture, with the lens swapped out. He’d be in an even bigger financial hole, otherwise. And oddly enough, the stream cutting out halfway through a hunt had brought in more viewers than ever. 

Like people _liked_ watching him almost die.

 _Whatever_. He could not-quite-die more often, if it brought in more credits. The extra hits might bring in enough revenue to upgrade the droid with a more blasterproof lens.

But for now… finances are still too tight. So he’s walking into the guild’s favorite cantina first thing, trying not to show his limp. Or start bleeding on the floor. 

“I have something set aside for you,” Karga says, first thing, like he’s been waiting.

Oh no. “That doesn’t sound good.” 

“It’s… well, it’s sensitive.”

“I don’t do _sensitive_. I just want to get paid.”

Karga sighs. “Anonymous party put out a job. Pays well. Alive _only_ , not dead. Bonus points if you can bring in his ship.” 

That doesn’t sound _too_ sensitive, but Din could see why Karga might want him. Some of these bounty hunters — couldn’t be trusted not to kill a bounty on sight, even if it meant less money. Not great memories. Or maybe just stupid and vicious. 

“But…?”

“Guy’s a war hero,” Karga says. “And there’s a _lot_ of interest.”

“Let someone else do it, then,” Din says, instantly. War hero means potentially catching New Republic attention, but probably not of the good kind.

“The thing is…” 

“I don’t get involved. Not after last time.” After Grogu, and everything that came after him. He fought for both their lives, and he wasn’t going to risk getting on the wrong radar again now, when they finally had some peace.

“Not even for thirty-thousand credits?” 

Any sum that tempting comes with trouble attached. “Not even,” Din says, trying not to calculate how many months of food he’s turning down for the entire covert.

“You hunt skips for the New Republic,” Karga points out. 

“That’s different,” Din says, even though they both know it’s not, not _really_. New Republic, Old Republic, Empire -- one government isn’t much different from the other. His world’s still the same, no matter who’s ruling the country’s core. Kid doesn’t deserve to deal with any of them, either. But Dune’s a friend, kindof, and… well, he really needs the money. 

“He’s a big name. _Lots_ of interest. Handsome guy, you know, kindof a rapscallion,” Karga says. “It’ll be good on the holos. Could get you some _real_ private clients.”

Fuck. Karga’s right. And he can’t stop thinking about the fresh pack of foundlings the Armourer’s trying to keep fed, after the hubbub out in Jakku… 

Din tries not to let his annoyance show. “Give me the puck, then.” 

Din doesn’t recognize the face. He hadn’t paid attention to the war — hadn’t had time, beyond keeping his covert fed after the Empire burned their home to the ground. Who can think about _war heroes_ when they’re running for their lives? 

“Han Solo,” Din says slowly. 

“The one and only,” says Karga, as if Din’s supposed to recognize the name. “I’m giving this to you because I know you need it. You’re the best in town right now. Only other guy with the skill is coming back after a long break. No idea if he’s any good, anymore.” 

That catches Din’s attention. “Is he…” Din gestures at the helmet. 

“Mandalorian? Depends who you ask.” 

Din files that away. Exile? Unpopular Creed? Possible, if it’s the same guy. “Shorter? Could sweep in a heavyweight tourney? Name’s, uh... Fett?” 

“Haven’t seen him since the old holos,” Karga says, “but he used to be good. Just heard he’s back on the scene a few days ago. But yes, Fett.”

“Old holos?”

“Yeah, you know. Famous bounty hunter Boba Fett? Worked for anyone shady enough to pay a big premium back in the day, broadcast every second of it? Huge celebrity? Record skips, record kills, record pay, record everything?” 

“Haven’t heard of him.” 

“Of course not.” Karga’s shaking his head and rolling his eyes a bit. “Well, don’t get on his bad side.” 

“Don’t plan to get on any side of him,” Din says quickly, thinking about the easy violence he’d seen the man display in just a few minutes of observation. The absolute self-assuredness and competence for the camera. He’d believe the man was a long-time pro, both in front of the camera and in the guilds. 

No way was Din getting tangled up with that, if he could help it. 

Karga snorts. “Well, better move fast. Word is he’s hungry. Might steal your viewers. And your gigs.” 

“Sure,” Din says distractedly, already turning to leave, “thanks for the help.” 

Han Solo first, so Din could stop fretting about this month’s bills. _Then_ he’d start worrying about competition on the holos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest (fun) challenge with this is “how do these characters change when they are being observed immediately by the people around them vs. when they are being observed by + performing huge impersonal audiences.” I hope I’ve captured some of those changes well (ie Boba repainting his armor regularly). But always curious to hear feedback re: characterization on that front as this fic develops.
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at [neverfeedthesarcophagi](https://neverfeedthesarcophagi.tumblr.com/). I welcome questions/comments/prompts/whatever.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din doesn't really want to get involved in New Republic politics, but the bounty for Han Solo is very, very large. Unfortunately for him, the guy seems proportionally difficult to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! So excited to see people are enjoying this. Here's a short one, a bit early, as things start to get moving. Soon, very soon, Shit Is Going To Hit The Fan.
> 
> I plan to update this every Thursday. If I finish early, I'll speed up that schedule.

The cam droid pans around Din’s head, catching a chest-up shot. Helmet dead-center. The first few times he broadcast, everything caught the wrong angle and the light glanced off his helmet; no one could see anything, and he looked ridiculous. But now he’s gotten the hang of it, and it takes mere seconds to tweak the droid’s position so he looks poised, stoic, put-together no matter how much internal bleeding might be going on. 

Grogu’s just out of the shot, as always — Din doesn’t want to blast the kid’s existence to the world, but there’s no reason he can’t stick around as long as he’s off-screen. He programmed the droid to treat the kid as a visual black hole: avoid at all costs, no matter how it might mess up an otherwise-great shot. Din makes sure Grogu’s still napping before he clears his throat and sets the cam droid to livestream.

This part always feels awkward. It’s like nothing, to have a camera following him around during his day-to-day. People get their kicks from watching him hunt. He doesn’t have to do anything except not die. Maybe he does things with a _little_ more panache, draws some fights out a bit, but you won’t hear him admitting it. 

But staging everything? Creating a story, filling in the audience, crafting the hunt so it’s something worth watching, not just some guy getting beat up trying to take in a few small-time criminals? Weird every time. 

Being a Mandalorian helps; there’s just enough mystique, and he’s not afraid to take advantage if it makes providing for the covert easier. But it’s still a tough line to walk. He needs to give just enough information to keep people enthralled, without spilling anything that might tip off the mark. And, frack, asking for tips? Awkward every time. 

There’s a pit of nerves in his stomach, like always, but he has to get a move on for this one. 

“Hey everyone,” Din starts. “Uh, we’ve got a new bounty. Guy’s name is Han Solo — I guess some of you might be familiar with him?” 

A rush of pings indicates yes. Din glances at the monitor that’s tied to the holostream. _Really_ yes. Off-the-charts sharing across the Holonet. Din should’ve looked him up more before going live, but he really doesn’t have the time to read the news holos. 

Din gathered the important details from Solo’s criminal records, so he shares them with the viewers: Last seen around Cloud City, just a few towns over, with an old war associate. Smuggles with an old ship, possibly a few decades older than the pre-war Razor Crest that Din pilots. Long, long list of enemies and past bounties. And he’s listed as a deserter from Empire _and_ Republic armies. Classy. 

“For all his criminal history, doesn’t look that violent. Seems like he must’ve pissed off some client or other,” Din says. “ _Not_ a Hutt, this time.” 

The audience seems to love that comment, though Din’s got no clue why. The last time Solo got brought in, a Hutt paid for it. That’s just the facts.

To get a bounty worth three months of work on his head, Solo would’ve had to piss off _quite_ the client. But that part’s none of Din’s business. And he’s certainly not going to reveal exactly _how_ much he’s getting paid for this overinflated bounty. 

The cam shifts off Din. It catches flickers of the workspace where he does the bulk of his hunting and tracking: glowing screens showing Solo’s last known position, a backdrop of neatly ordered tools, a small weapon rack, an assortment of antennas and wires for inexplicable purposes.

“Anyway. We’re off to Cloud City. See you on the other side.” 

The feed cuts out. 

* * *

Cloud City is a bust. The mining town’s just above Bespin, corporate funded and floating just outside county airspace. Legally, it’s the equivalent of someone building a barge full of trash in the middle of the ocean, then claiming it’s sovereign territory: No one’s jurisdiction, everyone’s problem. 

As soon as Din starts poking him around, people stiffen up and point him to the baron administrator. Why are miners always so unfriendly? The cam droid follows him as he wanders his way into the baron’s well-appointed office.

Lando Calrissian is about as helpful as his denizens. 

“I hear you’re looking for Han Solo,” the baron says, before Din has a chance to say anything. 

“Yes.”

Lando’s eyes glance up to the cam droid, and his demeanor changes. He straightens his already impeccable posture, does something _swishy_ to his cape, and winks straight at the droid. 

_Oh boy_. Din’s eternally glad people can’t tell he’s rolling his eyes behind his visor. 

“If you find him, let him know he still owes me a ship,” Calrissian continues, teeth glinting in a quick grin. “And that his _wife_ is looking for him.”

Din grunts. “So… you didn’t see him when he was in town two weeks ago?” 

“I can’t believe he dropped by without saying hello.” Calrissian puts a hand over his chest, as if deeply wounded.

Din is now nearly positive that Solo ditched his wife to run something lucrative for Calrissian. “Right,” Din says. “Any idea who might know where he is?”

“We haven’t really associated much since we parted ways with the New Republic.” 

Calrissian’s not even trying to hide that he’s lying, and Din has to admire the gall. Din clenches his jaw. “You can just say that you’re not going to talk.” 

“Okay then,” Calrissian returns. “I’m not going to talk. Have a good day! And get out of my city.” 

Calrissian gives the cam droid another wink for good measure. Din tries not to audibly sigh as he turns to leave. _Someone_ in this place has to have it out for a smuggler who’s in with the boss. He doesn’t really want to wander anymore — his entire body still hurts from yesterday — so he heads back to the cantina.

He orders a soup for the kid, then sits to gather his thoughts and stroll the Holonets. Cloud City mines gas. Its permits are in order; it was perfectly functional during the war, encountered a bit of trouble, then decommissioned for awhile. Calrissian returned after the Empire scattered, then got it up and running. It doesn’t seem like there is anything worth smuggling, really. The gas is worth more on open market than off. 

So, what. Solo was just joyriding? Visiting an old friend?

It’s clear that Calrissian is protecting Solo. And the city has a healthy respect for Calrissian — anyone who rolls over on Solo will have to deal with Calrissian. 

Din eyes the cam droid in frustration. This is when the live streaming just doesn’t work. Anyone he’d questioned earlier would’ve ended up on livestream — easy for Calrissian to ruin the snitch. Every second he leaves the droid on brings in more credits, but sometimes it’s just not worth it. 

“Hey,” Din says, flagging down the bartender as he pockets the droid. “Can you tell me what Han Solo does here when he visits?” 

“Oh, you know, plays some sabacc, catches up with the boss, loses some money at the tables, borrows money from the boss — the usual,” the Ugnaught, a portly fellow with blonde wisps of hair over his porcine face. 

“So he’s in a lot of debt to Calrissian?” 

“Don’t think they keep score at this point.” The Ugnaught chuckles, as if he’s in on a joke that Din doesn’t get. 

“You know where Solo goes when he’s not around here?” 

“Couldn’t say,” the bartender responds.

“Can’t say? Or don’t know?” 

“Can’t say,” the bartender says slowly.

“How much to get you to say?” 

The Ugnaught tugs on his beard nervously. “No amount’ll make up for the trouble Lando would put me in if he found out.” 

Din forks over a few credits, trying not to think about the growing hole it makes. It’s not a small sum. When he catches Solo, it won’t matter. 

“Well,” the Ugnaught starts, “that amount _might_ make up for it.”

* * *

In the end, it’s not all that complicated. Din lets the kid slurp up the soup and hopes his ears aren’t open wide enough to pick up on all Han Solo’s indiscretions. Din wishes _his_ ears weren’t wide enough. He’s back on the Razor Crest in no time with new coordinates, filling in the cam droid.

The instant he hits the stream button, he has tons of active viewers — more than double his largest number before, when he took out an entire krayt dragon. It’s a bit offensive that people are more interested in watching him catch this wayward deserter than they are in a highly tactical creature hunt that saved an entire town, but, _hey_ , what pays the bills. 

“So. Apparently everyone in the world except me knows about Han Solo’s marital problems.” Din clears his throat awkwardly. He certainly knew more than he wanted to, after his conversation with the bartender. “I met up with a source. He pointed me in the right direction. Seems like we’re looking for an old kyber smugglers line over in Ilum. Not much of a market for kyber anymore… so…” 

Din’s thinking out loud now — a new habit he’s been developing since the kid and the streams. He snaps his mouth shut. Twenty-thousand-plus people don’t need to hear about the itch at the back of his neck the instant he heard “kyber.” No one should need kyber for _anything_ anymore, not with the Empire mostly dissolved. The New Republic doesn’t use that kind of technology. 

Seems like it might be good that someone’s put a bounty on Solo’s head, if he’s snapping up war tech favored by the imperials. 

Din _kindof_ wants to know who’s buying kyber, just so he can tip off the Marshal.

But. Again. None of his business.

A flurry of pings reminds Din that he’s just been staring off into the distance silently, cam droid still running. 

“Uh. Well, anyway. Source didn’t have the route, but he had the general sector, so I’m going to… go check it out.” 

The cam droid drifts around again, catching Din’s best guess at the smuggling line based on New Republic checkpoints, forgotten old-world roads, and sky passages. The Razor Crest is already keyed to the first location and on its way.

The audience is sending notes _wildly_ off the charts, and Din has a few minutes, so he pulls Grogu up from the sling onto his knee and checks out the comments. The droid pans up to avoid the kid and kicks on its livestream setting, which passes highlighted comments across the screen. 

_Fuck Han Solo and the horse he rode in on_ , reads the first. Polarizing guy, apparently.

He ignores the usual _hey big guy, come by coruscant and say hi, id let u keep the helmet on ;)_ energy and keeps scrolling for discussion of Han; he has filters on most of the creeps, but some still slip through. 

_if u find han tell him i’d marry him_ follows a — frankly disturbing number of comments to that effect. “I thought you all knew he’s already married?” There’s a titter of pings. 

_wont stop me_ ; _apparently doesnt stop him_ ; _u heard abt him n lando, rite_?

Din looks dead into the camera. He hopes the audience can sense the judgment in his posture.

He was half hoping that there’d be something useful in the muck — an old Solo associate who knows exactly where he’s gone, that sort of thing. As much as the live streams could hinder information-gathering, they also sometimes drew in the petty and vindictive who wanted to see old enemies caught. 

But, no. Just about a fifty-fifty split of New Republic political wonks, imperial sympathizers, and celebrity nuts scrabbling for air time. Nothing useful. Just… _depressing_.

“Okay. None of you have anything good to say. Bye.” Din shuts off the cam droid and turns to the kid.

“Hey there. How are you doing? Still hungry?” Grogu looks up at him with big eyes. “You’re gonna stay in the ship for this one, okay? Got it? Stay here?” 

Big, too-innocent eyes. 

“This one could be too dangerous. You get that, right?” 

_Blurp_.

Din really, really wishes he could do the Jedi-mind-talk thing that Ahsoka had done. Knowing that the kid understands him is helpful, but that means Grogu’s just willfully ignoring him. Maybe mind-talk wouldn’t help anymore than mouth-talk. 

At least Han Solo doesn’t seem to be up to anything important. Maybe it won’t be _that_ dangerous. Unless hijacking old kyber runs is extra-judicial New Republic work.

Din sure hopes not. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din, regularly: *busts into mining towns, gets half of it blown up while doing odd job to buy baby food, broadcasts it live*
> 
> Also Din: why don't miners want to talk to me
> 
> Thanks for reading. You can find me at [tumblr](http://neverfeedthesarcophagi.tumblr.com), where I mostly reblog a lot of Star Wars content and drop the occasional writing update.
> 
> Let me know what you think, if you have a second! Comments/kudos always make my day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modestly successful bounty hunting livestreamer Din Djarin has found Han Solo, finally. But he's not the only person looking for the smuggler.
> 
> Shit hits the fan.

Well. 

Han Solo is proving a _huge_ pain in the ass to find.

The old-world roads are not as deserted as Din would have expected or hoped. Which means when he turns a blind bend a few kilometers from the potential kyber depot, he encounters an unpleasant surprise: scavengers on skiffs. Now he’s getting shot at — _not_ by Han Solo, unfortunately — and no closer to payday. 

“This sucks. Hang on,” is all Din has time to grit out, half to Grogu, half to the cam droid.

A cynical part of him wonders if the Ugnaught sent him into a trap on purpose. But it’s more likely at least _some_ of the intel had a lick of truth to it. 

The shooters wear mismatched gear and brandishing underpowered blasters. Pirates, and not well-funded. Din’s fending them off best he can from the Razor Crest. But the ship really isn’t _that_ fast, and these guys have just enough gumption — and numbers — to cause problems. 

He manages to down one skiff. Another speeds up to fill its spot. 

He swings around a corner, off the main path, and then there it is: the Millennium Falcon. Din honestly wasn’t expecting the ship — it’s a big boost on the payday if he can bring it in, but a huge logistical headache. The Falcon’s landed at an odd angle in a gully right near a cliff overhang with the perfect birds-eye view for staking out the facility below. The facility that’s a den for thieves and imperial loyalists who are apparently running highly volatile materials that fuel supposedly defunct weapons. 

This is why Din doesn’t do _sensitive._ Give him a boring old retrieval mission anyday.

The skiff’s still powering up behind him and — 

“Dank ferrik,” Din cusses. There’s Solo, not wearing a lick of armor, just hanging out with macrobinoculars at the top of a cliff. He hasn’t even turned around in response to all the noise that the Razor Crest and the skiff _must_ be making. 

What an idiot. 

Din’s almost looking forward to booking him. He takes quick stock. Din’s not going to say no to the thirty-percent bonus that comes from bringing in Solo with the ship. That means he needs to land the Razor Crest somewhere it won’t be disturbed by pirates, nab Solo before he gets himself killed, and hijack a pre-war piece of crap. He’ll need to take out _everyone_ who’s chasing him, or they’ll probably find the Razor Crest. And take the kid with him, because there’s no way he’s locking Grogu up here until he can come back from the ship. 

Damn damn _damn_. 

“Okay, change of plans,” Din says, making for a quick landing in a crevice that looks close enough to the Falcon. The stream viewers will think he’s narrating when he’s just talking to Grogu; that’s fine, that’s safe enough for both of them. 

Grogu looks _excited_. Din sets the kid in the sling, settles him well behind the cloak, and arms up. Disruptor rifle, blasters. Beskar spear can stay on board. He gives the cam droid a few extra seconds so it can get a nice wide shot of his weapons locker. 

And then he’s running. Skiff’s still out of sight; he has some time to set up. Might even nab Solo and be able to shoot them down from the Falcon.

Solo is turning his head — he must’ve noticed some of the noise, _finally_. But it’s too late. Din’s nabbing him by the shirt at the back of his neck. And this is where leaving the Razor Crest becomes a huge hassle: He normally just drags people to the Razor Crest and freezes them. 

He’s going to have to fibercord this guy and drag him around.

“Hey!” Solo yells as he goes down, wrapped in the thin metal cord that shoots from Din’s bracer. “What’s the big idea?”

“There’s a bounty on you. I’m authorized to bring you in.” 

“Oh yeah? By who? Anyway, I think those guys are going to beat you to it.” Solo’s grin is feral and a bit mean. “Have fun.” 

Din shoves Solo to the ground behind him, already raising his rifle. “Stay put.”

Solo hits the ground hard. He tries to wriggle inelegantly away, but Din has wrapped him from basically head to toe. Din sights the skiff and takes out a few pirates in short order, but they’re in blaster range now.

Things aren’t looking _too_ bad. And then a third skiff careens around the corner. And then, to make things _worse_ , a Firespray-class interceptor shoots over the crest behind them, screaming in pursuit. It shoots straight at the skiff and misses. Which means the auto-blasters are headed straight for Din and Solo.

“Down!” Din yells, pulling Grogu in front of him and leaping on top of Solo. 

Solo is very, very lucky that the client only pays out if he’s alive. This is quickly becoming not worth the effort. 

The new ship’s blasters pass harmlessly over Din’s head. He crawls to his knees, grabbing the cord wrapped around Solo, then hucks the guy up and starts dragging him toward the Falcon. He _really_ should have left more of Solo’s legs free. 

“Hey hey hey! Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it!” Solo yells. 

Some _war hero_ this guy is. 

“You have sixty-K?” Din mutters. 

“Or maybe I’ll just pay _that_ guy,” Solo snipes. “And hey, what the hell is this weird green thing!” 

“What green thing,” Din says shortly. Din’s dragging Solo at an angle that brings his face right up to Grogu’s. The cam droid’s still running; he’s going to have to scrub this moment from the auto-broadcast recordings and hope that the tens of thousands of people watching don’t make anything of it. 

They’re _so_ close to the Falcon.

But the Firespray is touching down between him and the ship. One skiff has already spun off in a spray of sparks, a sputter of smoke, and an ear-rending crash. The other’s close behind. 

Din has a terrible, terrible feeling about this. 

* * *

Boba Fett steps out of the Firespray. His crew’s not far behind him, armed to the teeth and swarmed by cam droids. 

Din doesn’t have time to process. Fett’s pointing blasters straight at him, and Din instinctually dives straight to the ground. 

But Fett’s aiming behind him, not at him, taking out the last of the pirates. Din climbs back up to his knees again. While the pirates are distracted by Fett, he rolls Solo over to use him as a rifle stabilizer. The next few pirates disintegrate under his careful fire. 

They don’t work badly together. Fett has a second instinct for strategy, and he’s taking out the pirates in exactly the order that Din would have. Which means Din can start a few steps up on the chain, solving this problem twice as quickly.

Fett nods at him. A rush of exhilaration hits Din at the acknowledgment, at the split seconds that they’re working in tandem. There’s nothing quite like working with someone who can read your mind in a firefight. And who appreciates your good work. 

Solo breaks the moment. “Get off me!” He starts to say something else, but Din cuffs him in the head and pushes his face down. 

“You’re lucky they wanted your ship, too, or you’d be in carbonite,” Din says. 

“Hate that stuff,” Solo returns, spitting out sand. 

Then all the pirates are down, and Fett’s turning away from the pirates and away from Din and training his gun straight on Solo. Din vaults to his feet, launching over Solo, before he can think about it. The blaster bolts slam into him hard. Three, right in the tassets where Solo’s head would’ve been a half-second ago. Din grunts at the impact. More bruises for an already injury-filled week. 

“You shouldn’t put quite so much on the holos while you’re on the hunt,” Fett shouts, though it’s more amused than cruel.

Din doesn’t understand what’s happening. So much effort to rescue them, and then — what? Snatch Din’s bounty, take the glory and the reward on the Holos? Fett couldn’t have a puck for him; Karga said he’d set this aside for Din. Karga is shady in all kind of ways, but he wouldn’t screw Din over again, not after everything. 

But that was a killshot. The bounty required Solo _alive_.

“Give him to me, beroya,” Fett says. His voice is sharp and even through the helmet’s modulator. 

Din shakes his head. He checks the sling quickly, to make sure Grogu’s behind him and out of view of Fett’s prying cam droids.

“You’re outgunned,” Fett says, gesturing at the camerawoman from yesterday. Her face is obscured by a red helmet, and she looks properly ready to kill someone now, sniper rifle leveled at him for short-range. It wouldn’t pierce his beskar, but a shot with that thing would probably knock him straight out. 

“You don’t have a puck,” Din says, with certainty.

“I may have threatened Karga,” Fett says blithely. “But no, he wouldn’t give me a puck. And he couldn’t be persuaded to void the bounty, either. You have a good friend in that one. It doesn’t really matter — this one’s outside the guilds. Old, old client. Wants it to look like an accident.”

A skip dies while someone’s bringing them in — well, it happens. That’s the risk of putting a price on someone’s head. Din sees the odd, horrifying logic, but he can’t figure out where it leads.

This sounds more like premeditated murder.

What does he know about Boba Fett? Nothing, really. _Fuck_ , he should have taken a few minutes to look the guy up. Who had he worked for? Why come back to bounty hunting after a long retirement, just to go kill a guy on live Holo for a beyond-illegal bounty? 

A man like Han Solo won’t die without consequence. He has connections, he owes debts, he helped save the New Republic and then ran for his life. People would want blood for blood. Fett wants to, what, broadcast the man’s execution?

 _Why_? What the hell? 

Din really, really doesn’t want to die in the middle of some grudge match between a good-for-nothing smuggler and an infamous bounty hunter. But he _also_ can’t afford to lose this kind of money.

Din’s breathing heavily. He tries to slow his racing heart, control his breath.

“Look,” Din says. “I need this bounty. I have —” he doesn’t want to out the covert, no matter that this is another Mandalorian, “— people to care for. There are kids. Just let me turn him in, and then you can do whatever you want. I’m not invested. He’s kindof terrible.” 

“Hey, I don’t like you either,” Solo whispers, loudly. “But don’t let that guy kill me.”

“Shut up,” Fett and Din say at the same time.

Fett pauses. His helmet tilts to the side. Din hopes that means he’s considering, because if they can’t talk this out he doesn’t like his chances.

Then there’s a blast of heat, and a whir of engines, and there’s _another_ ship touching down right in between them all. X-wing, pre-New Republic. _Old_ , again. Rebellion insignia. The landing job is ridiculous — there was barely enough space between the Falcon and Din’s position for the Firespray to clear properly, but this X-wing pilot is acting like they have 20 feet on all sides in the narrowest of gaps in the middle of a firefight. Dust flies everywhere and Din shields his visor with a forearm, bracing against the wind.

Solo’s laughing. Blood runs down the side of his face, from a scrape where Din dropped him headfirst. 

“Something funny, Solo?” Fett grits. 

“Don’t look now. Both you guys are gonna get it,” Solo gets out, before Din cuffs him again.

That’s the only warning they get before a Jedi steps out, laser sword flaring green. 

* * *

Everything goes to hell.

The instant the Jedi’s in view, Fett and Shand open fire. Din and Solo are right in their line. Din has a split second to crouch in a disastrous attempt to block for Solo, protect Grogu, and keep himself alive. 

But the bolts don’t make it. The Jedi does — well, Din’s not really sure what. The blade flashes and twirls, and suddenly the bolts are flying _not_ in their expected trajectory. For all that he teamed up with Ahsoka back when he was still looking for Jedi to help Grogu, Din didn’t actually really _see_ her fight. 

He’s almost glad he hadn’t. A shiver runs through Din. This is _terrifying_. 

The Jedi isn’t even looking at Fett, now. He’s just deflecting every bolt as it comes with a flick of his wrist and a flash of his sword behind him, as if he can sense the projectiles in the air. 

Din would think that Fett would be less set on this, with a Jedi in play. But apparently the man wants to kill Han Solo very, _very_ badly. 

“You want Solo to come with me,” the Jedi says, and even though he’s looking at Din it’s not totally clear whether he’s talking to Fett. His voice resonates, as if pulling strength from somewhere far, far away. 

“That trick doesn’t work on me, Skywalker,” Fett yells. But he’s lowering his blaster, and gesturing for his partner to do the same. Her sniper rifle drops, albeit more reluctantly. 

The Jedi shrugs effortlessly. The laser sword shuts off with a zap. “I thought Han knocked you into a sarlacc pit?” 

Ohhhh. _Ohhhhhhh_. This is so _stupid_. This is the _stupidest_ thing that Din has ever been involved with. He hates every second of this. This is the _worst_. God, he and Grogu have almost died, what, six times today? Over some _grudge match_? 

“Hey!” Din yells, before the two can start fighting again. “Look, I just have a bounty puck for this guy. It’s not even for his death! I’m just trying to do my job here!” 

“Thank you for finding him,” the Jedi says. “I’ll make sure that you’re paid in full for your troubles.”

That takes Din aback. “I don’t think you have the authority to do that,” Din says doubtfully.

“I know the client. We can work it out.” The Jedi, for everything, acts affable, even friendly. His eyes are bright, and there’s a bit of a thrilled grin starting at the edge of his mouth.

At this point, Din doesn’t even care. He’d leave without a single credit if it means he can see the end of this disaster. Din eyes Fett, then the sniper, then the Jedi. Everyone’s tense, but not actively shooting. 

Din steps forward, slowly, hands out. “Look, you take Solo, you deal with Fett.”

“I’ve dealt with Fett before. It’s no problem,” the Jedi says. Then his eyes drop. Everything in his demeanor tightens. The air feels like lightning. 

He’s staring at Solo. Sure, the guy’s a bit bloody, but he’s fine — nothing immediately visible to invoke this kind of anger. 

No, he’s staring at _Grogu_.

“Hand over the little one.” His voice is dark. Thunderous. He reaches out towards Din. The laser sword screams to life. 

“You’ll be safe with me,” the Jedi says to Grogu, hand outstretched.

For a moment, Din sees it all stretched in front of him: All these months of protecting the child, lost in a moment. His decision, at Ahsoka’s urging, to stay with the child a little longer, to take his time, to let the child grow and heal before separating them again — irrelevant. The Armorer’s blessing, to cease his quest for the Jedi, unnecessary. The small home they had built together, empty again. Din, once again a clan of one. 

He’s never had much imagination, much _time_ to dwell on the future. But this brief fear pierces him and steals his breath. 

And then an invisible force drags the Jedi into the air. He chokes, eyes bulging. His legs flail. Din looks down at Grogu to see his little paws raised, eyes closed. 

“Hey! No! Stop that!” Din gently swats Grogu’s hand in some futile attempt to disrupt the wizard magic. “He’s not going to hurt me!” Probably a lie. But the Jedi is the only thing between Fett and them, right now.

Din doesn’t want to think about where this scenario goes if the Jedi dies, and it’s just him and Fett again. And where he has to explain away the death of a _Jedi_.

Grogu twitches his ears towards Din. But his eyes are crammed shut, brows furrowed in determination. “Come on… Grogu, it’s okay, I won’t let him take you,” Din says softly. “Just set him down.” 

The kid opens his eyes and looks straight into Din’s visor. Din imagines if the kid could talk, he’d be saying something like, _If you’re wrong about this, I’ll never forgive you_.

Din sure hopes he’s right about this. But he’s also pretty sure that an adult Jedi could have thrown Grogu to the ground the instant he felt that invisible grasp around his neck. If this Jedi _really_ wanted to harm either of them, they’d already both be dead.

The Jedi plummets to the ground. He crashes to his knees, somehow still graceful despite everything. Dust coats his black clothes.

“Nice grip, kid,” the Jedi says, with a grin. 

_All these people are insane_ , Din thinks despairingly. But the grasp of ice around his chest loosens in something like relief. 

Fett and his crew watch dispassionately. Solo, for once in the past few minutes, stays blessedly silent. 

The Jedi’s still kneeling, eyes clear. After that thunder in his voice, the change is alarming as much as it’s a consolation. He cocks his head, as if listening. “Oh, I see,” the Jedi says softly. “I misunderstood. Sorry.” 

For a moment, Din feels a surge of hope that this hellish disaster might be almost over. He can just give Solo to the Jedi and leave. Everyone else can fight this out. 

Then Fett raises his gun and shoots straight for Solo. 

Before Din can think, he’s diving. The blaster bolt catches him in the helmet. His rangefinder display flickers.

Over the ringing in his ears, hears the Jedi heave a sigh. A leather-gloved hand raises at the corner of Din’s vision. Every single weapon wrenches out of hands and holster, and flies to float at the Jedi’s back.

“Everyone needs to calm down and take a step back,” the Jedi says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks much for reading! Find me on [tumblr](http://neverfeedthesarcophagi.tumblr.com). I hope you're having as much fun reading this as I am writing it :)
> 
> There will be some more direct Din-and-Boba interaction soon... very soon... Next chapter, even. Once all this silliness gets resolved and Din runs away from the plot, as he must.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a Jedi shows up to save Solo's ass and break up the stand-off between Din and Fett, Din finds himself trying to solve more problems than he could have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks for reading. Early update, because I have no self-control. It's a big one, and pretty pivotal to the rest of the fic. Hope you all have fun. :)

A Mandalorian bounty hunter, a grim-mouthed sniper, and a Jedi sit around a fire. It sounds like the start of a horrible joke, but it’s just one of the worst nights of Din’s life that hasn’t involved en masse lethalities.

The entire disastrous confrontation had started close enough to dusk that the sun has now set, and desert chill is settling in. Din keeps himself back and away from the fire, in part to shield Solo from Fett, and in part because the bolt that caught him in the head might have given him a concussion so he doesn’t want to move. Everything hurts, and sand is starting to creep into every available crevice of Din’s beskar’gam.

In honor of the Jedi’s forced detente, everyone has disabled their cam droids for the evening. 

He’s trying to put Grogu behind him, but the kid seems fascinated by the Jedi. He keeps crawling into Din’s lap to stare and coo. 

The Jedi, for his part, carefully hasn’t looked at Grogu since the misunderstanding earlier. Din doesn’t trust it. The disinterest seems feigned. Polite. Motivated.

Ka’ra, Din could be at home dreaming about purchasing three months of provisions for the covert, right now. Instead he’s living through one of the most awkward situations he has _ever_ , in his entire forty-odd years, had to subject himself to.

“Now that we’re all together…” the Jedi starts.

“Any chance someone could untie me, here?” Solo whines. 

“No,” everyone says simultaneously, even the Jedi.

“I’m going to tell Leia about this,” Solo says petulantly.

The Jedi’s face is serene. “Leia put the bounty on you.” 

Solo falls silent for a second. Then explodes, face red. “What the _hell_?”

“Officially, you’re a deserter with valuable New Republic intel. Unofficially, you’re a husband with people who love him and don’t want him running off to storm kyber facilities just to prove a point. Or getting _killed_ by old enemies,” the Jedi says pointedly, not looking at Fett. 

“She can’t just put a _bounty_ on my head when we have a disagreement.” 

“I think you’ll find that she’s a general, and a senator, and technically also still a queen of a small but recovering country, and eight months pregnant, and she can do anything she wants.” 

Din’s already-low estimation of Solo sinks a bit further. Who abandons a child? 

At this point, Din wishes he could turn off the sound on his helmet. The more he hears about _politics_ , the more he feels pulled into it. He just wants to go _home._ He already knows one former queen of a war-ravaged country, and he does not need to interact with any more. No matter how much they’re paying for the _extra-legal retrieval of their husbands_. 

Grogu claps. At least someone’s having fun.

Fett hasn’t said anything. He’s just sitting there, head cocked. His hands keep flexing on his knees, like he’s trying to keep from clenching them. 

But now he speaks up, voice cool and unreadable behind his helmet’s vocoder. “I’m willing to drop my client.”

“Yeah, right,” Solo mutters.

“We appreciate the gesture,” the Jedi says more delicately, “but I’m wondering what motivates it. You’re not known for your forbearance.” 

“Guy’s an asshole. Too many rules, big hassle.” 

The Jedi hums. “I don’t think that’s it.” 

Fett grunts. “Take it or leave it. I can afford to be choosy.”

When that doesn’t seem to satisfy the Jedi either, Fett ventures, “I'm not getting paid anywhere near enough to take on a Jedi again” — and _oh_ , does Din have questions about that _again_ — “and I’m not about to summon all the hells of the New Republic down on me. Not _this_ week.”

At least Din’s not the only one who had no idea how big a vat of bantha shit he’d be crawling into, going after Solo.

“Good,” the Jedi says, after a long pause, seeming still not entirely convinced. “If I see you near him again, I can promise it won’t go well for you.” 

“If I see him again, I can’t promise it will go well for him, either,” Fett sneers. 

“You absolutely won’t see me again, so it won’t be a problem!” Solo says. 

“Uh,” Din interjects, then immediately regrets it as every head around the fire turns to swivel and look straight at him. “...Thank you all for ceasing fire. I’d still like to get paid, if it’s all the same.” 

“Oh! Yes, of course! I can transfer the credits now.”

“Don’t have an account.” Din tries not to be awkward about it. Or sound shady. It’s because he’s poor, and a refugee, and on the move, and no reputable banking clans operate in the Outer Rim anyway. 

The Jedi sounds suspiciously unsurprised. “I don’t keep that much on me. Suppose I’ll just have to drop by and deliver the payment in person. Send me your coordinates?”

“I’d rather meet somewhere public.” Din hopes his voice doesn’t sound too stiff through the vocoder, but he’s probably not that lucky. “The cantina in Nevarro? There’s only one. The guildmaster there can witness.”

It’s the _proper_ way to do it, anyway.

The Jedi looks like he wants to suggest something else, and Din sets his jaw. But the Jedi shrugs. “Sure.” 

After that, it seems like Fett and Solo have plenty more to say to each other — all nasty, involving jetpacks and a sarlacc — but Din tunes them out, waiting for a moment to slip away. As Fett’s voice gets tighter, and the Jedi’s serene facade seems increasingly artificial, Din thinks for a moment they’re so distracted that he can escape without anything else going horribly wrong.

But then the Jedi reaches out and grasps him by the forearm. Din goes still and tries not to jerk away. The Jedi stares at Grogu’s sleeping face, pale eyes intense. Fett shifts, visor glinting as he looks on. Din notes distantly that the Jedi’s arm doesn’t feel like flesh — it’s hard, unyielding under the glove, though the grip is gentle. 

“That little one is very special,” the Jedi says. “Take care that no one realizes exactly how special.” 

Din’s throat closes up. All he can do is nod. 

* * *

Din can’t believe they made it out of that. By all rights, _everyone_ there should be a corpse in the dust, right now. 

He sinks into bed with a groan. Shedding his armor, then repairing and polishing it, has taken far longer than he prefers. Against all odds nothing actually _punctured_ his body, and thankfully his flight suit is blood-free, so there’s none of the miserably slow separation of cloth and wound, but the rangefinder is still flickering from that headshot. All his muscles have started to lock up. He slathers himself in bacta and hopes for the best.

The kid is fully conscious, watching him with big eyes from the pram. Din takes a deep breath. And then the past day starts to hit him — the frustration, the pain, the terror of it all. Nothing like those early days, on the run from the client and the imps. But echoes of all that makes it all worse.

 _I won’t let him take you_.

Maybe he should have, Din realizes now. Grogu and Skywalker are kith and kin in a way that Din can never be.

“You sure you don’t want to go with the Jedi, kid?” Din asks, sitting up a bit. The movement makes his back ache.

Grogu just splurts at him. 

Din smiles, shakes his head, and flops back. 

Of course the kid _could_ go with the Jedi, if he wanted. The whole choking thing didn’t seem friendly. But maybe under better circumstances. 

“You know you can, if you want, right?” 

Grogu just stares. Maybe turning his nose up at the mere idea of going with that particular Jedi. 

Din struggles for the right words. He almost says, _You won’t hurt my feelings_ , but that feels trite, somehow. And he’s realizing now that it might be a lie. In the moment, Din had just thought _I won’t let him take you_ was the right thing to say to get Grogu to calm down. But now, it’s a quiet night after a long exhausting two days that Din probably only survived by the skin of his teeth thanks to Grogu’s wizardry accidentally defusing a near-death situation. Because the kid cares about him. Because they’re choosing to stay together. 

The Armourer said in those first days, raise it, or else return it. “You are as its father.”

And he _has_ tried to return the kid. But after Ahsoka refused to train Grogu… well, things come up — a bounty here, a disaster there, a few more supply runs for the covert. Din isn’t _not_ looking for Jedi, exactly. It just doesn’t seem like a priority, if the kid is too — _attached_ for them. Too _afraid_. Too _dark_ by association with him. 

He had relayed Ahsoka’s concerns to the Armourer. The Armourer had nodded and cryptically told him that there are many sorts of clan, chosen and fated, and that perhaps he ought to reconsider her first command: _care for it_. 

Din has thought that he hasn’t decided yet, that he is still considering whether he _can_ care for a child. That is, after all, the more difficult route. But he’s starting to realize that he is living as if he has already decided. Does he have the heart to unmake that decision? Months, even weeks ago, he might have said yes. But now?

Din stops trying to say anything. 

The moment feels overwhelming, somehow, like there’s a conversation happening but he’s only privy to part of it. Which probably isn’t too far off, if both Jedi he’s met can understand Grogu. 

“That all was a bit scary, huh, Grogu?” he asks. “If you want…” Din gestures at the space beside him on the mattress.

In seconds, the kid’s cuddling up to him and halfway to sleep. 

Din would like to follow. But first, he rubs his bleary eyes and begins the long, slow process of scanning every second of livestream footage to remove any hint of Grogu. Solo’s crack about the green thing, those terrifying moments that the Jedi lifts into the air — Din cuts it all out, frame by frame, and loops the altered footage over the old as if nothing has changed. 

With any luck, no one realized what exactly they had seen. But Din can’t shake the worry. He dreams of medical tests and imperial uniforms.

* * *

The next day, Din has a concussion and _so many problems_.

The first, he attempts to mediate with judicious bacta application. The rest — he doesn’t even know where to start. The Jedi has left him a holo message, so he has to meet a Jedi in a cantina to get paid thirty-thousand credits, plus ship recovery bonus. Yes, good, money. Food for covert. Job wrapped up. Some flexibility to choose less-terrible bounties in the future — something simple, with a straightforward arc that will roll in the regular viewers and a few tips for his troubles. The Jedi can’t make it to Nevarro until tomorrow, but Din can work with that.

But the thing is, Din was livestreaming to the holos when Boba Fett showed up. And he was _still_ live when the Jedi arrived. And the Jedi either didn’t know, or didn’t care, that dozens of cameras were watching him; he’d done nothing to interfere with the stream.

No one has remarked on the footage that he scrubbed the night before. But a lot of people watched that live. A _lot_ a lot. And Fett’s cam droids are circling from all angles in the background of Din’s footage, for the entire confrontation.

Which means Fett must have _also_ recorded the majority of yesterday’s clusterfuck. Fett doesn’t broadcast live, thankfully — that had been the first thing Din checked when he blinked blearily awake that morning. Small favors, Din supposes, that Fett’s wildly popular show is _syndicated_ and _professionally edited_ and _released on a schedule_ , unlike Din’s own makeshift streams.

But Boba Fett still has footage of Grogu choking out a New Republic Jedi.

Which means that Din has to somehow convince Fett _not_ to include that footage, or, worse, sell it to the highest-bidding imperial without revealing exactly why he wants to protect the kid. 

And _that_ means he has to approach Fett, as soon as possible, before his team edits and releases the next batch of footage to millions of viewers.

Bad. Very bad. So horribly terribly bad. 

* * *

So that’s how Din finds himself in Boba Fett’s old world western-themed dive bar in Tattooine, with Grogu tucked away safely at the apartment. The place is dusty and empty, with too-tall ceilings and sparse decor. It seems like it should be littered with trash, broken beer bottles and crushed cans, but it’s oddly tidy in its squalor. Din is pretty sure this place is or was a cartel front, given the name — Hutt’s Palace — but it seems perplexingly empty of Hutts. 

The camerawoman-slash-sniper just stares straight at him as the saloon-style doors swing and clap behind him.

“I need to talk to Fett,” Din says, as if he has any idea how he’s going to make this work. He has no leverage, nothing. The best he can do is ask nicely. At most, he could offer his bounty hunting services to a much more experienced bounty hunter who’s so well-known he has private clients. 

Yeah, right. Unlikely Fett actually _needs_ any help, especially with this terrifying woman watching his six.

She smiles at Din. Between the amusement in her dark eyes and the familiar way she adjusts her sniper rifle, Din is preparing to add more pain to his day. 

But then Fett is strolling out of a back room, wearing full armor and helmet over a long dark robe. “Shand! Ease up.” 

Din tilts his head in acknowledgment. Shand does not relax her grip on the rifle.

“I assume you’re not here to make up for the wildly large sum of credits you lost me yesterday,” Fett says.

“...No. Sorry. But thank you for dropping your claim.” In-all, the choice _was_ an unexpected professional courtesy. Nevermind that Din caught half a dozen blaster bolts before Fett’s goodwill kicked in.

Fett surveys him slowly. 

“Unfortunately, I have to ask you for another favor,” Din says.

“Okay.”

“Can you cut the green creature out of anything you release?”

“An odd request.”

“It’s for safety. It’s an old bounty. They think I killed it. Don’t want the client to come after me, looking for their money back.” It’s a version of the truth, though the client is long dead at Din’s hand, and the child seems to have fallen off the disintegrated empire’s radar. But Fett doesn’t need to know any of that. 

For a long time, Fett surveys him silently. Din tries not to panic. They both saw the child use the Force. They both saw the Jedi _talk_ to him. Fett has to know how much children like Grogu are worth, to the right buyer. How expensive this favor really is. _Looking for their money back_ implies another bounty and steep reward.

Din tries to look for tells, the little hints of emotion and personality that other Mando’ade let spill out beyond the visor. A certain stiffness in the legs or shoulders, a tip of the helmet. But either Fett is masking, or he grew up in a different culture than Din’s own, or most likely both. Though Din hasn’t run into many others, he’s gotten the feeling that most Mandalorians share more with Bo-Katan than with him or Fett. But that doesn’t mean that he and Fett are particularly similar, he chides himself. 

“Okay,” Fett says, at last.

Din blinks. Only a long life of excess caution keeps him from showing his surprise. “...Great. So can I, uh, see the footage before you air it?”

“No. I’d never allow someone to interfere with Shand’s work like that. But you have my word.” 

It’s too easy. Too… _too_. He doesn’t even want to know _why_? Well, he can probably guess why, just by using his eyes and common sense, but he doesn’t even want an _excuse_?

“You don’t want anything in return?” Din hazards. “I do have some credits to spare, after… after I get the food I need.” He’s already calculated; he can help the covert, cover the apartment, fuel the Razor Crest. He’ll go a little hungry, but he’s done it before.

“The food for the children you mentioned.” 

Din’s not entirely happy that Fett remembers that. “...Yes.”

“Foundlings, I assume?” 

“...Yes.” 

“No, I won’t be taking credits intended to buy food for children.” 

That’s… well, it’s really just bare-minimum common decency, but Din still finds himself surprised. Shand’s raising an eyebrow, probably intended for Fett’s notice. 

Fett gives a quick sigh. “Help me on a job.” There’s a bit of something wry in his voice. “I think my viewers will like you, when the episode goes out.”

“I can do that.” A currency Din recognizes, at least. 

“We’re broadcasting the episode tonight.” 

Din’s entire body hurts at the thought of working again so soon after yesterday. And he’ll have to take extra care not to get hit in the head again; he’d seen what that could do to a person. But he’s already calculating what he can do, how to favor his wounds, when — 

“No, you’re not coming out with me today,” Fett says. “You need to go home and sleep.” 

“But —” 

“I mean, we’re broadcasting the episode from a few days ago. The creature won’t be in it. You’ll thank me later. Don’t worry about it.” 

Fett steps forward. Din watches, paralyzed in confusion, as Fett reaches out to put his hand on his shoulder. It lands just past Din’s pauldrons, where his neck is most vulnerable. Fett’s thumb settles briefly near the groove of Din’s traps. Din fights the instinct to step back, forces himself to keep the muscle from jumping in shock. 

It’s just a quick, awkward pat. Probably intended to make him feel less anxious about the deal. Well, that part’s not working.

Din clears his throat, frozen in place under Fett’s hand. If the man had a vibroblade, Din would be dead right now.

“Besides,” Fett says, “your presence yesterday… and that… inexplicable intervention... is probably the only reason Skywalker didn’t kill me where I stood. I owe you something for that.” He drops his hand, but stays close, within reaching distance. 

Din has enough wits about him to ask, “Skywalker? The Jedi?”

“Yes,” Fett says slowly. “The Jedi. Luke Skywalker. You haven’t heard of him?” 

“He seems… New Republic? A New Republic Jedi?”

Fett’s head tilts consideringly. “Skywalker is _the_ New Republic Jedi. The only one. Their _pet_ Jedi.”

“I thought — well, I had heard there is another. And possibly more.”

Fett cocks his head. “I wouldn’t repeat that, if I were you. A greedy bounty hunter like myself might start to wonder where you’re getting your information.”

“If you’re so greedy, why drop the Solo bounty so quickly?” The instant it’s out of his mouth, Din regrets asking. The question feels perilous. 

“Look,” Fett says. He pauses. It’s so hard to read tone through a vocoder, but Din’s sure he’s not imagining the tension in that hesitation. “If you really want to kill someone like Han Solo, and you know the right people, you can have your pick of people willing to pay you for the pleasure. And it’s just as easy to convince them _not_ to give up their money, if it becomes more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“So, you’re doing — freelance snuff films?”

Fett steps back. “Nothing like that. Just — nevermind. Go home. Get your concussion treated. Stop talking about Jedi. Your green thing is between you, me, Shand, and whoever Solo runs his mouth off to.” 

Din knows a dismissal when he hears one. The cheesy saloon doors swing and clack behind him when he catches a shadow at the corner of his eyes — Shand, following. His hand strays to his blaster, ready for trouble. But she just falls in beside him, movements swift and precise. 

“I take it you never watched the show,” she says.

“Don’t really have the time.”

“Well. If you want to know why Fett might want to kill Solo, just watch the last few episodes before we went off air.”

“Oh?” 

Shand smirks at him. “It seemed dramatically appropriate to launch the comeback series with a… _revisiting_ of those moments. My idea, honestly. Not worth Jedi problems, though. _Nothing_ is worth Jedi problems.” 

The hints are frustratingly opaque. 

“You’re going to make me watch it, aren’t you,” Din says flatly. Why can’t people just _explain_ things? 

Shand shrugs, peels off into an alley, and disappears. 

* * *

Din’s already dreading returning to the HoloNets. But he has to cash out his credits, and it takes a few extra days because he still refuses to open a bank account. He keeps the notifications muted when he’s working, unless he’s actively using the service. Too distracting. 

That night when he turns them back on, it’s an onslaught. Hundreds of messages amounting to _hey dude u alive?_ Some lustful inquiries about Solo. Some disturbing comments about baby-snatchers, presumably related to the Jedi’s brief appearance. 

His subscriber count has quadrupled, and the numbers ping upward as he scrolls. Credits rolling in, too. _buy urself a big bahmat steak buddy, u look like u need it_ reads one donation.

He gets a fresh notification, a mention. It’s from an actual HoloNet channel, A&E. Something about… _guest starring_? Din stares in befuddlement before he realizes he’s watching his miserable yesterday from another point of view.

Fett is as good as his word. Oh, there’s plenty of action — a good long segment of Jedi chicanery mixed in with some downright flattering shots of Din, then the absolutely humiliating moment that Din dropped like a stone after getting shot in the head. He winces in sympathy, even though he was there. 

Some clever editing makes the whole thing look neatly resolved. Shand has spliced footage from the start of the fight toward the end, then subtly reversed the Jedi’s exit using odd angles and mirror images. The work is way beyond anything Din can pull off himself. In the end, it looks like Fett defeated the Jedi while Din lay insensible on the ground. 

Maybe he should feel more embarrassed.

But Grogu’s carefully excised from every shot. The rush of relief hits Din so hard, he realizes he has been expecting Fett to screw them over anyway. 

That would have been easy to reconcile with Din’s brief view of the man: A ruthless bounty hunter who worked for the Imperials at the height of their power, an agent of the Hutts in their vicious ailing days, an adherent of another Creed who lived solely for profit and pragmatism. 

He’s not sure what to think, now that evidence to the contrary is staring him in the face.

Curiosity piqued, Din starts looking into Boba Fett. At the very least, Din reasons, he ought to know who rides into battle by his side when Fett calls in that favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy this, check out my vaguely post-s2 "Luke and Boba are metamours both dating Din" [fluff/comedy series of brief ficlets](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139231). I'll be back next week!
> 
> Chapter preview: Din and Boba keep running into each other on jobs. It doesn't go quite how Din would've expected.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din has some time to breathe, after washing his hands of New Republic politics. But he and Boba Fett just keep running into each other.
> 
> Alternatively: Have some extremely roundabout flirting for Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thanks for reading. Here's a quiet interlude, with a side of sideways flirtation.
> 
> If you're enjoying this, check out my Fennec POV [outtakes fic in this universe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29410209), in which Fennec starts collecting b-roll of Boba going googoo-eyed for Din and uses it for nefarious purposes. (It is not, strictly speaking, canon. 😂)

Luke Skywalker travels incognito, this time.

If Din didn’t already know he’s looking at one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy, nothing would tip him off. The geometric-patterned poncho looks soft and worn-through with age. Out of the black robes, Skywalker seems approachable. Less legend, more human. 

Din doesn’t trust it. 

The Jedi still has a lightsaber clipped to his belt at his back, conveniently obscured from view by the poncho. He moves lightly. He could leap to his feet and massacre the entire cantina in seconds. 

He doesn’t really seem like _that_ type. But if he fought in the wars — well, a talented pilot in the Rebellion has likely killed more beings in a single battle than Din could in an entire year.

Din arrived at the cantina a full thirty minutes before they’d planned to meet, head pounding through his still-healing concussion, then sat and observed Skywalker for another ten after his arrival. He’s nearly positive that the Jedi knows he’s here, even though he’s angled himself completely out of sight of the cantina entrance, and the man barely looked around before sitting down.

But the Jedi is just waiting patiently.

When Din does make his way to sit down in front of Skywalker, his eyes are closed.

The Jedi smiles, opens his eyes, and pushes a small crate across the table. “Here are the credits.” 

It’s definitely more than the forty-thousand Din’s owed. Din regards the offering with suspicion, then begins counting out the correct amount.

“Take the extra,” Skywalker interrupts. “It’s yours. Consider it hazard pay for having to fight a Jedi. And getting shot in the head.” 

“I didn’t do much fighting,” Din says. “I believe the official story is that I immediately passed out, while Fett and Shand drove you off in glory.” 

“Unflattering for you, hm?” Skywalker asks, voice light.

Din shrugs. He doesn’t need to look good. Grogu is safe, the bounty is delivered, the covert will eat. And clients have reached out to him already, just from watching his firefight with Fett and Shand. A few minutes of his helmet on the real HoloNet is apparently all you need to start making some actual money. Nevermind that he was barely conscious for most of the clips. 

“Well,” says Skywalker. _Here it is_ , Din thinks. “If you’d like to do some _real_ work, for good money — Leia Organa is impressed with your work. She wants to hire you.” 

“And she is…?” 

Skywalker blinks. “General Leia Organa? The senator? Han’s wife? She ran for chancellor last year.”

Din shrugs again. “I don’t really follow politics.” He refrains from noting that if she lost the chancellorship, she must not that be important in the scheme of things. 

“Well… she can pay you regularly, put you on retainer.”

“What would I be doing?” Din asks, against every screaming instinct in his brain.

“We really _do_ need someone to look into these kyber supply lines. Han is just… not the guy.” 

A nameless Mandalorian is more expendable, Skywalker means. Nice. 

Okay, maybe Skywalker just means that Han Solo is clearly unsubtle, and too well-known and too tied to the New Republic to get much done without attracting attention. That would be the generous interpretation. But after the other day, Din isn’t inclined to be generous with the Jedi. And these days, in his pure beskar, Din doesn’t go anywhere without drawing eyes. 

Also, that sounds _sensitive_. And not anywhere near enough work to justify a retainer, given that they already know where that kyber depot is. “And?” 

“We would like to know who paid Fett to off Solo.” 

Din considers the offer silently. Skywalker practically bounces on his seat, waiting for an answer. 

“There must be more.”

Skywalker looks sheepish. “We have a _lot_ of problems, and an ever-dwindling number of people to solve them.” 

A cushy retainer _would_ solve a lot of issues in his life. But how many more would it cause? Every time he’s gotten involved with New Republic business, trouble has followed. He barely managed to help the covert relocate safely before imperial remnants cracked down on their home in Nevarro. 

Hunting down Fett’s client is also a pretty serious breach of unspoken etiquette. Din would prefer _not_ to end up on the opposite side of a firefight from that man again. 

“No thank you,” Din says, at last.

“Anything I can do to change your mind?” the Jedi asks, with a brilliant grin. 

“I’ll let you know.” 

“Don’t you want to know what she’d pay?” Skywalker doesn’t wait for an answer. He just names a sum. It’s astronomical. Enough to solve every problem Din has ever had. Enough to cause far, far more. And the sure sign that there’s a gigantic, miserable catch hidden in the deal. 

Before Grogu, Din might have been tempted. That kind of money would supply himself _and_ the covert with literally anything they needed. They could buy abandoned land, build a settlement. Pay lawyers to fight back sovereignty of their lost hereditary homeland. 

Din probably wouldn’t live to see the fruits of his work. That was the deal, with money like that. But the covert wouldn’t need him, after. He could die in combat and secure their legacy. 

Now, he has someone else who needs him. That amount of money just makes him more certain that he’s making the right decision when he walks away. 

“Your little one… it could really change his life,” Skywalker coaxes. 

“We’re not talking about the child,” Din snaps. He tries to walk back the harshness in his tone. Skywalker _thinks_ he’s doing Din a favor. He seems to have no grasp of the strings attached. What an optimist. “Again. No thank you.” 

Skywalker gives a short, brittle smile, but his eyes stay warm. He clasps Din’s arm again, like he had two days before. “Just know that if the little one ever needs _anything_ , I’m here. I will find you, and I will do whatever is necessary to keep him safe.” 

Din doesn’t know how to begin to respond to the intense declaration. He’s simultaneously overwhelmed and skeptical, torn between two reactions: conviction that Skywalker couldn’t possibly understand what he’s swearing to, and fear that the Jedi knows _exactly_ how dangerous that promise could be but has made it anyway. 

“Okay,” Din says, at a loss. 

He takes the extra credits. Skywalker doesn’t protest. 

* * *

Things return to normal, almost. 

He delivers months of supplies to the covert’s new location, a below-ground compound under an abandoned farming town the Empire had razed (unnecessarily) during skirmishes with the Alliance. No one greets him, as usual, with Vizsla out on some sort of job. It’s quick and impersonal. He was already a bit of an outsider as a foundling who never found a clan; after the covert ran because of him, to protect Grogu, some have treated him even more coolly. He’s just glad that he can provide for them, as they provided for him during civil war after civil war.

That video with the Jedi exploded his follower account from modest to alarming. The tips go up accordingly, and the financial pressure eases, a bit. Din’s brief appearance on Fett’s show also seems to have rocketed him to a similar level of elite bounty hunters, known not just in the Outer Rim among the locals and law enforcement, but across a wider whisper-network of individuals with dubious ethics. 

The next few months’ rent and bills are covered well in advance. The creaky cam droid that got shot recently gets a bulletproof casing. He even buys the kid an aquarium, where he makes a noble attempt at breeding frogs for the kid’s consumption and tries not to think too much about the biological details. Din marks the expense in his brain as part of the grocery bill. 

The extra interest lets Din be choosier about jobs. He picks the safer ones, the ones where he can bring Grogu along, hidden away behind the cloak. They don’t always pay as well as becoming the living, murderous embodiment of some high-roller’s personal vendettas. But they wear less harshly on his body, end less often with him bloodied and sore. 

They also often have more drama, rather than just outright action, for his subscriber base. The more dangerous ones, Grogu still watches the stream from home. 

Fett seems to be going after a similar pool. It surprises Din that the better-known bounty hunter isn’t seeking the bloodiest, highest-paying jobs he can — it would fit with the image that he projects in his older broadcasts. 

He keeps waiting for Boba Fett to ask for help. The other Mandalorian never does. 

But Fett starts running into him on the job. 

Din beats him for some bounties. Fett beats him for others.

The first time it happens, they’ve both picked up the same bounty without realizing it, and Din’s already taken one crewmember but still has to dispatch or restrain six others. Din can’t hope to compete: Fett has a whole crew, resources that Din won’t even dream of. He’d need Organa’s retainer to have a chance. 

Fett taunts him. “Better move quicker next time, beroya.” 

Shand just nods at him as she knocks over a target and drags them away by the hands. 

Din still manages to nab part of the crew, so they end up booking the skips all at once and splitting the rewards.

“Maybe _you_ should move quicker, if you can’t totally beat a one-man-band carrying a baby,” Shand goads Fett, as they’re all loose-limbed and battle-flushed waiting for Dune to process the paperwork.

Dune eyes them all suspiciously. “You better not be giving Mando any trouble,” she says.

Fett gets a bit stuttery. “I — not — we weren’t trying —” 

“Relax,” Dune says. “I was joking.” 

“I thought it was good advice,” Din mutters, as Dune hands him a much smaller sum than he’d been banking on. 

The next day, an unusually lush bounty that has Fett’s name all over it stays suspiciously unclaimed in the Guild. It brings in all the money that Din needed for the week; he can take a few days off, rest up, and buy a few more plants to satisfy the burgeoning frog population in Grogu’s aquarium. 

The covert thrives, too. The children look stronger, cheeks flush, eyes bright. Old rags are slowly replaced with new, clean clothes. Their compound becomes better-armed, better-defended. The adults have plenty to eat, even after the foundlings. 

He avoids the Armourer, but on one supply run, she finds him anyway and draws him into her forge. There, bathed in the familiar heat of the flames that make the tools that are his life, he can’t withhold his worries. 

It pours out of him: Too many things are in motion in the outside world. Months ago she gave her blessing for Din to use the Holonet to raise extra money and support the covert in its new home, despite their vows of secrecy. But he fears the brushes with Fett’s much larger audience skirts the borders of what she has allowed. 

“We are rebuilding after great loss. That is why I made this allowance in the first place,” the Amourer says. Her voice rings out like her hammer striking beskar. “Let the world see this one who does not follow the Way, so they might not look so closely at you. These last months, we have had all that we need, and more. The foundlings have not hungered once. That alone is worth the cost.”

Din is left not entirely certain that she understands how the HoloNet works, but he dares not question her.

He watches more of Fett’s older holos, just here and there. He tells Grogu it’s to learn the craft. The old bounties are bloody, violent, devoid of allegiances. He could work for one clan one day, their enemy the next. He follows the money. He’s quippy, self-deprecating, dogged to the point of self-destruction. It’s hard to tell how much is acting or how much is genuine. Still, the bounty hunter has a masterful stage presence, even though he doesn’t talk frequently. He manages the tools of their trade remarkably well. 

He never takes off his helmet, not once, on either the old episodes or the new. But Din has seen him in person, off-camera, showing his face more than once. It’s not the Creed, that keeps him from showing his face. So what is it?

And, yes, Din now understands why Fett’s tried so hard to kill Solo. That last episode — the legend, shoved into a sarlacc and forgotten in Tattooine sands. Din thinks of that glimpse of scarred skin, that first time he saw the bounty hunter. It’s hard to watch it happen in live time. Especially realizing what must come after.

When Skywalker showed up to save Solo just weeks ago, Din had read Fett’s bitter deference to the Jedi as frustration, annoyance, begrudging respect. Now, he wonders if Fett was showing something more like fear. 

But now Din is even _less_ convinced by Fett’s explanations for why he stopped headhunting the former general. Fett has no love of Jedi — even hunted a few for the Empire, on his show. And he knows how to kill Jedi. He might have taken Skywalker, if he tried, and gotten his revenge on Solo, too. Especially with Shand at his back.

But he stopped.

Din finds himself increasingly fascinated by Fett, and increasingly perplexed. 

Karga makes Din’s confusion even worse, one particular day.

“Mando!” Karga greets when Din strolls into the Nevarro cantina to pick up a fresh job. “I have a new job for you and your friend!”

Din blinks. “My… friend?” 

“Other Mando? Fett?” 

“I didn’t know we were friends,” Din says. 

“Oh, I just thought —” Karga stops and shifts guiltily, as if he might have been about to share a secret. 

“We mostly compete. What made you think we’re friends?” 

“Well… He asks to make sure he doesn’t take the same bounties as you, when the pay’s non-exclusive.” 

What?

“And he also tries to take bounties in the same area, or collaborative bounties. Seems like you end up working together a lot? I keep seeing him popping up on your stream.” 

Din doesn’t say anything. His mind wheels. 

Karga goes, “Look, if I wasn’t supposed to know, if it’s a secret or something, my lips are sealed. I didn’t notice anything. I’m sure you have to keep up that appearance of rivalry for the viewers, right?” 

Din thinks back over the past few weeks, rearranging his interactions with Fett in his head. He can’t quite figure out what picture they add up to. “Thanks,” Din just says. 

He’s so flustered, he leaves without picking up a new puck. 

* * *

Months go on. No one notices any hints of Grogu on the stream from that disastrous day with Solo. No imperials arrive on his doorstep. Skywalker doesn’t contact him again, or ask about the child, or try to convince him to go on retainer for Senator Organa. The covert grows, and thrives, and rebuilds. Grogu floats balls and eats frogs and even goes to school every so often.

Din still wakes with his heart pounding. He dreams of droids, and needles, and blaster fire. He can’t stop devising plans for if the imperials _do_ come for Grogu again. He has a strategy for every hour of the day, every location, every combination of accidents and misfortunes that he can think of. 

But none of that happens. 

He relaxes, by some definitions of the word. 

And then he receives a pre-recorded Holo message from an encrypted frequency. It’s his personal commlink, not the system he uses for business on the Razor Crest. That tech is short range and the Outer Rim’s service is spotty, so whoever it is had to be within spitting distance, recently. His heart races and blood pounds in his ears, like it hasn’t in weeks. 

He decides to deal with it later.

When he meets Peli at the Razor Crest’s berth, Fett’s already there, leaning against the ship, helmet propped on his hip. His hair has grown longer, started to curl. It’s the first time Din’s seen his face head-on. Their eyes meet: Fett’s are warm, dark. He’s not sure what color exactly; the helmet doesn’t translate shades quite right, but he started wearing it too young to ever quite pinpoint how the filters translate. Din looks away quickly. Still feels wrong to look an unhelmeted Mandalorian in the eye. Like his face is bare, just with the proximity. 

“You haven’t opened my Holo,” Fett greets.

Din feels a rush of relief. It’s just Fett. Not some over-reaching client who dug up his personal information, not an imperial agent. “Didn’t have time,” Din says. “On my way out.” 

“You owe me some work,” Fett says.

“I do.”

“You ready? Tomorrow.” 

Din has a job right now, but it’s not much money. Low-stakes, too. He’ll probably wrap it up in a few hours completely unscathed. 

“Sure,” Din says. He realizes after a second that he should probably ask more questions. But Fett’s been avoiding political work, same as him. 

“I was thinking we could both air it. You stream live, with a bit of a delay, and I release an edited final cut. My viewers _did_ love you last time.”

Din tries not to grimace. “Let’s not repeat that.”

“I promise, no Jedi. Can’t promise no rotten smugglers, though.” 

“The collaboration sounds fine,” Din says. Better than fine. He’s almost… _looking forward to it_? 

“Going to be a long wait. Stake-out. Lots of down-time, then a quick pop, I think.” Fett adds, “Might want to leave the green thing at home this time.”

“Grogu,” Din says suddenly, before he can second-guess himself. 

Fett tilts his head. 

“Not a thing — it’s a he. Grogu.”

“Grogu,” Fett repeats softly. He shifts, and something flashes through his face, but Din’s still only looking at him out of his periphery, so he misses it. “Well, I’ll, uh… I’ll see you. Meet at Jabba’s? Sunrise?” 

“That sounds good,” Din says distractedly, trying to chase that expression in Fett’s eyes. 

But the other man’s face is shuttering. “Have a good night.” 

They both look at each other, then look away. Din gestures. “That’s my — I need to get into my ship.”

“Right. Right,” Fett says. Then his helmet’s on, and he’s strutting away.

Din begins his hunt and tries not to get _too_ excited about what’s probably going to be a boring wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: a whoooole lot of flirting. See you next week! 
> 
> Catch me on Tumblr [at neverfeedthesarcophagi](http://neverfeedthesarcophagi.tumblr.com). Lots of love to you all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din and Boba get to third base: syncing their commlinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to call this chapter "G-rated phone sex." 
> 
> This is a big turning point in the fic, and I'm excited to hit publish on it. Hope you all have fun.
> 
> Also, if you haven't already checked it out, I wrote a [Fennec-POV fluffy sideview](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29410209) of this fic for Valentine's Day.

The Razor Crest touches down behind Jabba’s Palace a bit before the sun starts to warm the desert sand. Fett’s crew scurries from the bar to the Firespray-class interceptor, piling gear into its cargo space, then disappears. 

“Shand not coming?” Din asks, looking for the glint of a scope in his surroundings. 

“Visiting her girlfriend,” Fett says, examining a disassembled blaster with his helmet on. “Have to give her _some_ time off.” 

Well, hopefully this job is as easy as Boba had suggested, if they’re down a sniper. 

Din gestures to the cam droids. “Need me to crew?”

“Kriff, no,” Fett snorts. “Most of the gear’s autonomous, anyway. I need your gun and your eyes. And your company.” 

“Company,” Din repeats. 

“Gets boring, a job like this. Need someone who won’t talk my ear off to keep themself entertained.” 

Well, that describes Din, at least. 

“Is Shand really that talkative?” Din can’t help but ask. She doesn’t seem like the type. 

Fett just snorts.

Then, Fett reassembles the blaster in quick, competent movements, not even looking at his hands. It’s an expensive rifle, a newer model with disintegration capabilities, and Din takes a moment to admire the man’s familiarity. Fett picks it up and immediately points it at the ground, to Din’s relief — too many bounty hunters play fast and loose with gun safety, and he’s relieved to know Fett’s not one of them even when the cameras are off. 

“Put a delay on your live holostream,” Fett says. “I don’t want anyone getting wind of this one before we’re through.” 

"Worried someone will beat you to it?"

Fett smirked. "They can try. I don't care.” He doesn’t explain further.

Fett claps him on the shoulder again, and this time, Din’s less surprised. 

* * *

The bounty’s for one of Fett’s super-secret elite clients; he’s wanted for theft and personal indiscretions rather than ties to any sort of government work. It’s more of a tracking nightmare than a violent chase — Fett fills Din in that he’s been tracking the troublesome Zabrak for a few days, and has finally pinned him down. He’s holed up in an abandoned apartment in a backwater that’s barely on the map anymore, after imperial occupation. Mining stripped it to the bones. 

The job is just as boring as promised: They patch into each other’s comms, take positions on opposite sides of the building, and wait. After an hour of watching the Zabrak pace in circles on thermal imaging, absolutely nothing else has happened. No unexpected friends, nothing. Din’s starting to lose count of all the times that Fett has inexplicably kept his word. 

The silence feels oddly companionable to Din, and he wonders if Fett feels the same way. Slow, long breaths come from the other end of the comm, broken up by the occasional update. The town is deserted, all tumbleweeds of discarded plastic and overgrown shrubs. And it’s still close enough to the Dune Sea that there’s not much wildlife. So everything’s silent, except for Fett’s breaths ringing in his ears.

Din has settled back against the wall behind him. After a while, he tips his helmet back against the wall. Fett’s breaths wash over him, as if there’s nothing else in the world. He closes his eyes and leans into it. But after a few seconds he reopens them guiltily. Just because nothing’s happening right _now_ doesn’t mean he can afford to be caught unaware.

“Don’t know if he’s going to show his horns for a while yet.” Fett sighs. 

“Well, it was worth a try,” Din says.

“Sorry to keep you away from Grogu overnight,” Fett says. Din can’t quite make out the tone — it isn’t mocking, though the words might have been taken that way. But it doesn’t feel wholehearted, either. 

“I planned for it,” Din says. 

“Mm.”

Din wonders if Fett realizes he’s now one of a small handful of people alive who know Grogu’s name. He doesn’t regret telling Fett, but now that he’s had time to second-guess the decision… what if Fett thinks it’s _weird_? Or what if, like Din’s own name, Grogu’s name isn’t his to give?

Doesn’t matter now — what’s done is done. 

They lapse into silence again as night falls. It’s just him in his head, and the dull shine of stars, and the dark. Everything starts to feel odd, after that. Din’s skin itches; inside his helmet, with no Grogu to mind and no immediate goal, his heartbeat starts to slow. He’s well used to the ways the helmet limits his peripheral vision, narrows the world down to a certain view, layers it over with filters. But right now it feels suffocating. Fett’s breaths in his ears no longer feel soothing.

Maybe it’s the night-time. It creates a false feeling of intimacy, perhaps. But whatever it is, it has him filled with a curiosity and a bravery that pushes him to voice things he might normally not, in his search to distract himself from his restlessness.

“What's the _real_ reason you didn't keep trying to kill Solo?” Din thinks of Fett’s endless hunts for Solo over the years, and that final humiliation — pushed into the sarlacc pit, shoved off the face of the earth into obscurity, after all those years of building legacy and reputation. 

Fett’s breathing stops on the other end. He doesn’t respond for a long time. Din’s about to apologize, or accept that he’s blundered horribly and pretend it never happened, when Fett finally speaks. “Thought I said I didn’t want someone talking my ear off.” 

“Forget about it,” Din says, through a pagn of disappointment. “Sorry.”

“No,” Fett says. “Let me —” 

“You don’t have to answer,” Din cuts him off. 

They lapse into silence again, though now Din’s even more on edge. He returns his thermal scanner to the house and stares dully at the target, who’s now collapsed into a fitful sleep. 

“I looked at Solo,” Fett says, maybe an hour later. Din’s shocked out of his own musings. “I looked at Skywalker, and — I was so close to it all, for so long. The Empire, the Alliance. I —” He stumbles over his words. “It consumed my life for a long time. I'm just one of many, that way, I suppose.” He gives a bitter chuckle, and Din feels like he's missing an inside joke. “I realized that if I kept going after Solo I could just… end up back there, like nothing was different. In that same old loop. But I _want_ it to be different.” 

Din thinks back to those early episodes of Fett’s from years, even a decade back. The Empire didn’t outright fund any of them; the show doesn’t seem like Fett ever intended to use it as propaganda. He worked for people who could pay, and that was it. But the Empire’s stamp is still on them. 

“So you’d rather ally with the New Republic, now?” Din asks. 

“It’s not about governments or sides,” Fett says, a trace of bitterness in his voice.

Din can understand that. He feels much the same. He took the Empire’s money, after all, and was prepared to kill for them all those months ago. If the bounty hadn’t turned out to be the child… he’s not sure he would have thought twice about the job. To him, it just meant taking back beskar from their dirty hands. Until the child.

“The man I worked for often, back then… being near him was like falling into a dark stain in the world,” Fett says quietly. “He was horrible. Everyone feared him. Everyone feared _me_ when I worked at his side. They all called me his tool, and they weren’t wrong.” 

“So you’re avoiding him.” 

“He’s dead, so no.” Fett admits, “Well. I don’t know. I just know that I could have shot Solo, fought off the Jedi, killed you — but I didn’t care enough, even with a payday at the end of it. I just wanted to go home and sleep, honestly.” 

_My loyalty is to the contract_ , Fett had sneered at one imperial, all those years ago, right on camera. He’d killed that same man, months later, again on camera, when he reached for power too quickly and a higher-paying Hutt client put 200,000 on his head. Din has assumed that whole exchange was a ploy for the viewers, but he’s starting to wonder if it says more about Fett than Fett intended to share. 

“Thank you for telling me that,” Din says, before he can think too hard about how overwhelmed all of this forthrightness makes him feel. “I can — I can understand that, lately. Things have been different.”

“Grogu?” 

“Yes.” 

“It’s easier to make those decisions when you have someone waiting for you on the other side of it,” Fett says.

“You don’t?” Din wants to give himself another concussion, just so he’ll shut up.

“No.”

 _You could_. _I’d wait up_. Oh, he’s going insane, to think something like that, out of nowhere. And he knows it’s not just that, at least for him — not the act of someone waiting for him. _Peli_ waits for him, sometimes. But it’s the knowledge that if he disappeared, or died, someone who needed him would suffer. That without him, there were few who could keep Grogu safe from the Empire’s reaching hands. 

Without Din, a dark, cold fate that awaited Grogu. Not like the covert. Din is important as their sole provider, yes. But he doesn’t matter to the covert, personally; he has no clan, no living kin to miss him. Only the role he plays matters. And one came before him, and one will come after. 

Grogu cares about _him_.

Din tamps down the urge to say any of this. He doesn’t really even have the words if he tried, to describe the way having Clan at last makes him feel. 

“I did once. Have someone waiting,” Fett says, unprompted. “My father. A woman he knew, a friend — I knew her as sort of a mother. But.” 

Din knows that kind of but. He has several himself. He tries not to think of his parents, his village, the lost mando’ade that came after. 

Something rustles on the other end of the commlink, and a soft curse sounds through the line. “That’s the skip,” Fett says.

Fett takes a steadying breath and fires. Recoil echoes through the commlink. Something about the noise sends a rush of exhilaration through Din.

The blaster flashes in the dark. Its bolt lands with a pop and a scream. 

“Stunned him,” Fett says. 

“I’ll grab him.” 

Din becomes suddenly, instantly, agonizingly aware that his own livestreaming cam droid has been floating near his head this whole time. It’s not patched to his commlink — he doesn’t have that sort of rig. But it can hear every word he’s been saying.

He had felt so safe, so swaddled in the dark, just him and Fett’s voice. He had nearly forgotten the outside world. 

Good thing Fett had the foresight to put the cam droid on delay. Though probably not for the reasons that Fett originally imagined. He can only imagine how _mortifying_ it would be for someone to see him — what? Having a normal, adult conversation? If… an intimate one.

He tries to clear his head as he descends to retrieve the skip. 

Din feels wired, and messed up, and a little shaky in a way that he hasn’t for years — not since taking bounties was still new and terrifying. 

“Nice shot, Fett,” Din says.

Fett makes a sharp noise, and then his comms cut off. 

“Fett? You okay there?”

Fett’s back in a second. “Don’t worry about it.” He sounds sheepish. “And at this point, you can call me Boba.” 

“This is the Way,” Din says, out of habit. He doesn’t offer his own in return. Din waits for the snide comment: _So you’ll tell me your kid’s name, but yours is still private, huh?_ He’s heard variations on it so many times. Too few people can resist pushing. 

“This is... the Way?” Fett echoes instead.

* * *

“I think that went well,” Fett says, staring at Din’s holonet tip jar as the credits start to pour in. Din has cut much of the wait-time but otherwise left the hunt untouched, and let it air as it would have if they had started just a few hours ago, instead of an entire night before. Fett fidgets with a glass of spotchka at the Jabba’s Palace bartop, helmet set carefully behind the bar, armor still on after the hunt. 

“I can’t believe that’s already brought in more than the krayt dragon,” Din says, despairingly. 

“Upside, the krayt dragon was a masterpiece of craft.” At Din’s silence, Fett adds, “What? I had to check out the competition.” 

Din flushes with warmth at the thought of Fett going back through his livestream backlog. Nevermind that he’s been doing the same. 

Acknowledgment of his good work, from another true professional — it’s rare. The viewers don’t always see his good work — they laugh at his misfortunes, _love_ when he almost dies, exult for the thrill of the chace and everything that can go wrong. They don’t see the hard work, the care, he puts into every hunt. And mostly when he runs into other hunters, people who might notice, they’re racing for the same skip. Best he gets from them is, they’re honorable hunters who abide by guild rules and refuse to draw on a fellow. 

These rules are proving true for this hunt, too: The commenters seem particularly bored by their long wait, even though Fett’s tracking and hunting on this one has been beyond reproach. 

_I like it more when u guys fight_ , one commenter adds. In seconds, the thread is massively upvoted, bumped far above any fan comment on either of their holos’ message pages. _yea! never know who’s going to get a leg up_ , pitches in someone else. 

Fett evaluates the messages consideringly. 

“You know…” Fett starts.

Din freezes. This sounds like an _idea_. Ideas, historically, are very bad for him. 

“We could plan this a little better.” 

“Oh? What are _we_ planning?” 

“You know,” Fett says, “this?” 

“Bounty hunting?”

“I mean… we end up on the same sorts of jobs pretty often.”

 _On purpose, because you do it deliberately,_ Din thinks. But he doesn’t say anything about it. He’s pretty sure Fett’s unaware that he knows, and calling Fett on it just seems like pointless confrontation. 

“And?” Din asks instead.

“Well, our viewers seem to enjoy it. But they like it more when we fight." 

Din sees where this is going, but he’s going to make Fett say it. 

The streams where they run into each other _have_ consistently had the highest viewership, highest engagement, and biggest tips, so far. As much as the Jedi had brought in so many one-time viewers, voyeurs fascinated by the New Republic poster boy — yes, Din has since looked Skywalker up — it’s really _Fett_ who draws the most consistent crowd. 

“Fett…” he says. 

“Boba,” the other Mandalorian corrects, a bit sharply. 

“Boba. Spit it out.” 

“We should coordinate. Go up against each other on jobs. Split everything down the middle, or stagger it if one of us has to do more of the work. Well, plus Shand, so three ways. If you’re tired, I could take the beating for you. We’d work twice as fast, bring in more tips, you could get home earlier — it’s a win-win.” 

“What do you get out of this?” 

“Can’t I just want to see a Mandalorian succeed?” 

Din hopes the angle of his helmet is communicating doubt and judgment. 

Fett shrugs uncomfortably. “I just think it might be nice?” A long pause. “I enjoyed tonight.” 

“So did I,” Din says. That, at least, is easy to say, and true. 

“So… you’d do it again?” 

“Yes,” Din decides, thinking of the warmth he felt just listening to Fett breathe. “Yes, I would.” His voice is soft and probably says more than he means to. After tonight, Fett’s own honesty, he still feels off balance. But he thinks that if Fett notices any of the other meanings in his words, he wouldn’t handle them carelessly.

“We’ll have to stage it like we’re rivals, of course,” Fett says blithely. “Maximize the drama.”

“Right. What do you suggest?”

* * *

Din’s good mood sours quickly. On the flight home, he receives a ping from black market contacts. They’re to keep him informed on any rumors related to children disappearing — ostensibly because he wants a slice of the credits, but in reality it’s a precaution he began taking after that ragtag group of imperials first came for Grogu. 

And they’ve found news. Not just one child, or a few, but dozens appearing across the Outer Rim.

He takes a short breath and fights to calm his heartbeat. Grogu is at home; Grogu is safe. Peli would have called if anything happened. 

But now he thinks about his helmet, his face for the world. His full beskar has never been subtle. Fett will broadcast him to a wide audience tomorrow night, after Shand has cut down the episode into something snappy and entertaining. Nothing bad has come of these higher-profile appearances, not even after all these months of playful cameos on each other’s streams. But how much longer can he get away with this before it comes back to bite him? 

Should he stop, knowing that there are fresh signs of danger for Grogu? But then how would he even begin to bring in all the credits that the covert needs? The fact of the matter is, he _can’t._ Months ago, his people were rationing food, scavenging supplies. And regular jobs like this, from Fett — they’d be so much more lucrative. 

As Din mulls over the newest problem of protecting Grogu, it becomes a welcome distraction from the way Fett’s own actions are making his mind whirl. With everything over these last few months — the odd, unspoken considerations that Fett doesn’t seem to want him to notice; these more obvious attempts to spend more time together; Fett’s startling candidness over the comms tonight, a quiet gift granted only when he didn’t have to see Din’s reaction play out right in front of him.

Fett wants his life to be different. Is reaching out to Din… part of that? Maybe Din is just reading _too_ much into things. 

At the very least, he’ll try this new scheme of Fett’s, see where it goes. But these child-snatchers — someone needs to look into that, too. Before they make their way to Grogu. If his contacts are right, the New Republic is claiming it can’t interfere with disappearances outside of the Core. And no one really _watches_ the Outer Rim. Which means if it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's first and second base, you ask? 
> 
> 1) avoiding taking the same bounties so you don't accidentally end up taking ur bf's money  
> 2) exchanging highly privileged information  
> 3) syncing your commlinks
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Hope you had fun >:)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din, Boba and Grogu all get to know each other a bit better... mid-firefight. Din continues to investigate the missing children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Glad you enjoyed yesterday's chapter. :) I bumped up the chapter count, to give Din and Boba a bit more time to get to know each other before Stuff Goes Down. 
> 
> Also, occasionally I write outtakes for this story. I posted [one already](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615967), a Fennec-POV post-chapter 6 drabble, and I might add more in subsequent chapters. A few of you have given me delightful ideas in the comments. Check them out, if you're interested!
> 
> Thanks so much, as always, for reading/enjoying/kudosing/commenting. I love hearing from you all.

A few days later, they plan to work together for the first time.

Din can’t stop thinking about their last hunt, the sheer exhilaration of working with a trustworthy adult he actually knows. Sometimes he pulls Dune in on jobs, but ever since she’s become Marshal, she’s had less time — and more reason to stay away from any Guild bounties, in case they’ll conflict with her New Republic allegiances. Really, he’s worked just him and the kid, or helped out total strangers, these last months.

It’s been lonely. It’s just _nice_ not to have to do everything yourself. 

That’s definitely why his brain keeps playing Boba’s soft words on loop, why his mind keeps wandering back to the long, steady breath he took right before making that shot. The entire night plays through his brain even while he’s trying to focus on feeding the frogs in Grogu’s aquarium, then catching a few for the kid’s breakfast. 

They take a New Republic bounty, a simple one, to test the waters. Din asks Peli to watch Grogu, loads up the Razor Crest with every bit of gear he has, and flies to Jabba’s Palace. 

Boba’s waiting for him in full armor. Shand, too. 

“Oh, uh,” Din says, “is she coming?” He wants to kick himself for the feeling of disappointment — another person means easier jobs. But with another person watching, he’s much less likely to get more quiet confessions about what’s going on in Boba’s head. 

“Relax, metalboy,” Shand says. “You’ll get your spotlight. I’m just the cam droid operator, and backup if needed.”

Boba snorts. “ _Backup_. Just one of us could clear this job no problem.” 

“Pick something more exciting next time, then,” Shand says with a roll of her eyes. “The point of this is showmanship, anyways. I’ve run all the metrics, and we get the best response when you two fight. So, we’re going to put you at odds. Within reason — guild laws still stand. Don’t draw on another hunter, and so on.” 

“Right,” Din says. “So… we’re racing?”

“You film your intro separately in the Razor Crest. We’ll do ours. Then, we’ll travel together — unless you’d rather waste fuel — and split up. Meet at the bounty. Insult each other a bit. You get there first, take the bounty this time. We meet back here, take it in. Whole thing takes less time than it would’ve with both of us, we split everything.” 

“It’s good enough that I could’ve come up with it,” Shand cuts in. “Though I’m not excited about the pay cut.”

“We’ll be able to take on more work this way,” Boba cuts in, like it’s a conversation they’ve had a few times already.

None of Din’s business, though. He doesn’t totally comprehend how their partnership works, and he’s not _that_ invested. Shand clearly does good work and holds her own in a firefight; that’s what matters to him. 

“I’m not very good at insulting people,” Din says hesitantly. That requires him to respond quickly, verbally, while he’d rather be concentrating.

“It’s fine, I can do that for both of us,” Boba says. “You just look intimidating and competent and people will infer the rest.” 

It goes more or less exactly as Boba envisioned. Thanks to a second and third set of hands to deal with the bounty’s friends, it takes about a third the amount of time it would’ve taken Din on his own, _and_ he gets shot at equitably, instead of 100% of the time. He’ll be back to Grogu, less injured than usual, in no time at all.

Shand disappears somewhere into Slave I as they’re flying back to Karga. The bounty’s tied up in one of the ship’s cells. 

It leaves Boba and Din alone in the pilot’s chairs. 

Boba slumps easily on an armrest, bare chin on his fist, looking like he’s mulling something over. “Where’s the little one today? Don’t you keep him with you? In the sling?” 

“Usually,” Din says. 

“So? He… busy?” Boba asks, as if he realizes the inherent silliness of the question. 

Yes, the infant Force-wielding alien has social engagements. Din chuckles aloud, remembering the semi-disaster that was Grogu spending a day in school. But he sobers quickly.

“I, uh…” Honestly, Din’s only thoughts had been _I can’t bring him._ There are just too many logistical issues.Boba’s cameras won’t be calibrated to avoid Grogu. Grogu might not understand that Din and Boba are friends if they really get into a pre-planned altercation. 

Not to mention the recent bouts of _child-snatching_ reported across the galaxy. Din can’t justify putting Grogu on camera, anymore. It just feels like too much of a risk. When a few dozen people were watching, that was one thing. But now, with thousands? And children disappearing? Too much of a chance that Din could slip up, that someone could spot the kid. 

“I understand that where you go, he goes,” Boba says stiffly. He almost sounds… _hurt_. “I’ve taken care to line up work that will be safe for both of you, when we collaborate. Shand has standing orders to cut him from shots. Is there anything else we need, to make it safe for him?” 

“There’s something taking them,” Din says quickly, before he thinks too hard about the instinct. 

Boba doesn’t respond.

“Across the Outer Rim. Kids like him.” 

“Oh,” Boba says, softly. Din avoids looking him in the eye.

“It just doesn’t seem like a risk I can take, anymore,” Din says. 

Boba nods. 

“But…” Din _would_ feel better if he could keep Grogu with him, on these joint trips on Slave I. “It might be safer if I didn’t leave him at the apartment.”

“I can child-proof Slave,” Boba says, and starts rattling off an oddly detailed list of measures he can take to make the ship safer for a toddler. Some of them — cupboard locks? what? — Din would never have thought of.

Din’s pretty sure no one could Grogu-proof any ship, but he appreciates the effort, so for the rest of the trip he just hums and adds his input when it feels needed.

Shand slips away when they land, leaving them to deliver the skip to Karga. They’re booking the skip and collecting a hefty bounty when that earlier conversation about Din and Boba faking a rivalry _months_ back comes back to bite him.

Karga gestures at them. “I didn’t see anything,” he says. Then he _winks_.

Boba just cocks his helmet.

Din’s far too mortified to explain. 

* * *

The extra money he’s been bringing in lately gives Din some leeway for personal projects. Which means he’s started gathering what information he can on the disappearing children. The thing about the Outer Rim is, people disappear all the time. The string of unallied counties is full of unsavory trade governed by lax regulations. It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say that people come to the Outer Rim _to_ disappear, or bring others here to make _them_ disappear. 

That someone noticed these disappearances at all — it’s alarming.

It doesn’t take Din long to trace the list of children his contacts have provided. It takes him to the dustiest of towns with names hardly anyone remembers, one after the other. 

The more Din digs, the more the disappearances all have certain traits: Strange whispers about the child and their guardian or family. The child, oddly bright, maybe even a genius in an odd area. A miracle, in the days leading up to the disappearance — someone saved from a terrible end. Strange disasters, shortly after. 

And then… _nothing_. No child, no family. Just an empty husk of a home. 

He doesn’t like it. He takes Grogu with him to the first vacant place. He asks, “Do you feel anything? Is there… Jedi stuff here?” Grogu’s eyes grow dark, and his lips curl back, and he retreats into the sling.

After that, Din keeps Grogu with him for the trips, but he leaves the kid in the Razor Crest when he visits the families’ homes. 

Din’s been at it for a week, and he’s coming home from another eerie and fruitless trip, when Boba comms him. He offers Din a delicate job: one hundred thousand credits to track down a water runner who took off with his boss’s goods. He wants the guy killed, the water returned. Boba’s already done the bulk of the research, narrowed their search from an entire country to a handful of smaller villages. 

“If you’ve already found him… what do _I_ do, then?” Din asks over the holo. It’s a _ridiculous_ sum, even split between them, and half the job’s just being handed to him. More than that stupid Solo bounty he was scrabbling over, just months ago.

Shand’s head pops over Boba’s shoulder. “Just show up and look shiny. And can you do the —” She leans sideways and mimics a fast-draw from the hip. “People love it. Even though it’s mostly flash.”

Din’s pretty sure he doesn’t lean _that_ much. That would look ridiculous and have very little strategic value. Or… wait… _does_ he? Maybe he needs to check his form on that one. 

“...Sure,” he just says. 

“How soon can you get here?” Boba asks. “The thing is… he’s on the move. We need to grab him before he leaves for his next safe house.” He rattles off coordinates. 

Din looks at Grogu, napping in the sling, and then pictures his route in his head. He could take Grogu home first, or — “I’ll be there in twenty. I can head him off until you get there, if you send me the key details.” 

Din’s commlink _pings_ instantaneously. He takes a quick scroll through the file, which contains way more information than he expected to receive. It’s a good thing Din has no plans to rip Boba off, because it’s all the information he’d need to steal a week’s-worth of research and tracking out from under him, along with a hefty sum. And Boba provided it without a second thought. 

“Okay, kid, time for a quick detour,” Din says to the still-sleeping Grogu, then pulls out his cam droid. 

“So,” he starts to tell the audience, sketching the scene as he begins his chase, “a tip about smuggling is, if you plan to steal from your boss, _don’t_ steal so much that the guy’ll take less of a loss by putting an absurdly high bounty on your head.” 

* * *

Din manages to sound the alarm at the smugglers’ hideout, triggering a lockdown protocol that traps the skip inside. It’ll give Shand and Boba the time they need to get here and head off the skip. Thanks, Boba’s extensive research. 

Boba catches up not long after, and it’s a good thing, too — unfortunately, the skip is well-guarded, with a phalanx of well-armed guards who are trapped _outside_ the blast doors, searching furiously for Din, who’s parked himself a ways away to watch the proceedings with his amban rifle. The crew’s weaponry isn’t consistent, pointing to mercenaries rather than a unit used to working together; that makes it that much easier for Din and Boba to cut them down. 

“Three,” Boba shouts, as another mercenary drops. 

Is he counting… _bodies_? Din shakes his head. No way. He refuses. This can be a fun one-boring one partnership, if that’s going to be the vibe. 

Shand has jumped into the firefight on this one, settling herself between a couple of storage containers to snipe at the better-protected fighters toward the back of the mercenaries’ formations. 

Between the three of them, the mercenaries are falling quickly. The remaining handful retreat to a chokepoint. 

Then Din hears the Razor Crest’s ramp behind him, and Grogu slips out into the fray.

Din’s already breaking cover to run to him, but he’s so far away, and blaster bolts are still flying — and — Boba’s stepping in front of Grogu, dropping to his knees in front of him, using his full body as a shield. Din turns, takes a few shots at the remaining mercenaries as they pop their heads out around a door frame. Shand finishes them off, but Din’s barely paying attention as he rushes the last few feet to Grogu.

Boba’s already picked him up, cradling him in his arms. “Hey now,” Boba’s saying, “you need to stay put.” 

“ _He knows how to open the ramp_?” Boba whispers at Din, incredulously, as Din reaches out to take Grogu. Din shrugs helplessly. The kid does what the kid wants. This is a fact of life. Right now, the kid reaches out his arms — he wants to be carried. Probably what he came out here for in the first place.

He pats Grogu gently, checking for wounds. Gratefulness for Boba’s quick thinking rushes through him — all the guns were pointed well above Grogu’s head, but stray blaster fire is more dangerous than a lot of people assume. 

“He good?” Boba asks, as Din stands there, trying to recover from the overwhelming fear retroactively hitting him, now that the situation has gotten less imminently dangerous. Grogu burps. “Seems fine. Go get your sling, maybe. Then we should move.”

Din can almost hear the raised eyebrow in Boba’s voice. 

“Yes. You’re right. Thanks,” Din says. 

Boba’s visor shifts to look dead-on at Grogu. “You’re gonna give him a heart attack, kid.” He wags a finger. 

Grogu’s ears flick back. Din won’t go so far to hope that he’s feeling contrite.

After that hunt, Boba helps him install a childproof lock on the Razor Crest bay door. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go a bit sideways for Din and Boba, but not in the way that Din expects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a bit early because my entire week is about to be a disaster. 
> 
> Shoutout to [Mandaloria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandaloria593/pseuds/Mandaloria593) for helping with the banter scene, because it needed to happen but I was... so stuck. <3

Din and Boba fall into an easy pattern, after that.

Taking the same bounties, “running into” each other, staging a race for the marks — it’s surprisingly easy. Just as natural as fighting together had been, when they first killed those pirates during the hunt for Solo. 

One occasion, they end up stealing a passed-out skip back and forth over a canyon. On another, they stumble across an infestation of vicious, flesh-boring bugs. They have to spray each other with fire to kill the gross things. (Shand makes it look like they lit each other on fire for less helpful reasons.) It’s… _fun_. And Din continues to get shot at _way_ less than he’s used to; everyone wants to kill the famous bounty hunter, not the guy creeping up behind him. 

The banter is a bit of a problem, though.

Not for Boba. After years of hunting on cam droid, Boba’s practiced at quipping. He’s never effusive, really, but he knows how to drop a few words at exactly the right moment.

Din just… has a hard time taking it seriously. And responding, as they all learn after he — in his opinion, quite slickly — dodges a lunging rancor single-handedly while Boba goads him in the background. 

“Is that the best you can do? I’ve taken down tougher bounties with just my pinky finger,” Boba yells.

“Well, I’ve got ten fingers, and I use all of them!” Din gets into a bit, tries to follow it where the improvisation takes him. “I’ll break that pinky if you try to steal this one.”

“You can try,” Boba growls.

“I _will_ try! I mean, I won’t try! I’ll just… do it...”

Shand snorts. A minute tremor of laughter runs through her. Only through extreme professionalism does she appear to keep her trigger finger firm and her aim steady, ready to hop in if Din needs an extra hand. 

But her placidity proves unnecessary. Din guts the rancor neatly. He folds his arms and tilts his visor at them as its body falls, twitching and spurting blood. 

“How was that?” he asks.

Boba pauses. 

“Are you going to say it?” Shand asks Boba. “No? Fine.” She looks straight at Din. “We’re never doing that again. Shut up. Just go back to your strong and silent bit. Please.” 

The next time he swings by Jabba’s Palace, Shand hands him a data stick.

“What’s this?” Din asks.

“One-liners. Memorize these. Say one per hunt. Do _not_ improvise.” Her voice contains murder. 

Din looks through them. Most are fine — vaguely threatening, a bit clever. A few are alarming. _How about you drop that bounty and focus on me, big guy?_ He deletes that one, and a few that sound similarly liable to be misconstrued.

After that, Boba delivers on the banter. Din barely has to say anything. After a few hunts, though, they both naturally start to talk a bit more than usual on camera, when they’re together. It’s easy to play off Boba. 

He leans on Shand, who even starts feeding him cues over commlink during hunts. Din doesn’t totally understand the HoloNet, beyond basic functions. The seething masses of fans who watch him kill people for fun, then post weird and sometimes-horny comments, remain mostly perplexing and opaque to him. 

But she’ll say something like, “put your hands on your hips more” or “next time you see Boba, call him oldtimer” and Din will do it and tips will come rolling in from the audience. He’s learned not to question her inexplicable genius. 

They spend a lot of time together, first planning the bounties, then preparing equipment beforehand, then winding down afterwards (Boba drinking, Din watching, Grogu napping, Shand immediately ditching them for her mysterious girlfriend). Each bounty adds a new pile of credits and a fresh addition to their routine. Soon, Din spends most of his working hours with Boba. Jabba’s Palace just has more space, more amenities, than the Razor Crest. And the newly child-proof Slave has an oddly plentiful number of Grogu-friendly toys. 

The bounty that changes things starts out pretty same-old, though a bit more dangerous than their usual. A rogue imperial who blew up an Outer Rim supplyhold. No sticky political implications on this one, despite the imperial target, because the Outer Rim isn’t New Republic jurisdiction and everyone’s politely looking the other way. Food rations are sacred, out here. 

The owner of the supplyhold wants the imperial’s head, probably for gruesome purposes.

But things… go to hell, a little bit.

Not in the usual way. The catching-and-killing part goes exactly as planned. They’ve tailed the bounty well; his travel is habitual, and he seems to have no interest in deviating from them or hiding out. If anything, he’s _proud_ that he destroyed an entire farming colony’s food for the month.

Din streams live, narrating the story for his viewers. He doesn’t let the disgust bleed into his voice: he’s a professional, still. Get in, get the guy, get out. 

This new pretend rivalry with Boba is — still professional. Just a bit more _showy_. It doesn’t mean he’s going to sacrifice basic principles. Boba’s already slapped vibrocuffs on the bounty. The job is basically done. Now, they just have to put on a tiny bit of a show.

The imperial, pale-faced and bleeding, presses himself against a wall. “Please,” he whimpers. 

Boba and Din ignore him. 

“His head’s mine,” Boba growls.

A thrill runs through Din. He crouches back, taking a defensive posture, forcing Boba to come to him — like he would in any real fight. 

Boba meets his retreat with a quick press forward, a series of tentative jabs. They’ve both got their blasters away, which makes no sense to anyone who pays a split second of actual attention. But Shand swears the hand-to-hand brings in more money, so they’ve been sprinkling it in, lately. 

And, again: it’s _fun_. 

Din meets Boba’s jabs with parries and counter-attacks of his own. Soon, they’re circling each other, locked in a dance of motions. They don’t want to _hurt_ each other, but each blow is a test: can Din intuit the next move, track the motions of Boba’s body, parse all his knowledge of the other man into a fluid series of actions and reactions. The room rings with the clink of beskar, quiet grunts, the occasional heavy thump when one of them lands a blow. 

Then Boba’s grabbing him by the cloak, tipping him off balance, and yanking them both to the ground. Suddenly they’re grappling. Shand is egging them on, but her voice fades into the distance. The imperial dashes toward the door, but Shand bowls him over. 

Din’s rolling off his back to pin Boba where he lies. And then they’re scrabbling, both looking for weak points in each other’s balance and form. Din’s ears ring. His breath comes fast. He gets a nice solid hold on Boba, completely disabling his arm. 

“Come on,” Din says, low near Boba’s ear. “Yield.”

Boba gasps, so loudly it gets amplified past his helmet’s vocoder. Then he taps out. Din drops his arm. Somewhere in the background the imperial is just muttering “ _why_ , oh my God, I’m going to _die_ ,” as Shand digs her boot into his back.

They both lie there on the ground panting, flight suits disheveled. Din tries to disengage first, tamp down his exhilaration. He offers Boba an arm up. The other man takes it, but Din pulls maybe a bit _too_ hard, and Boba rocks up into his personal space again. Their beskar clanks. Din throws his hands out to Boba’s shoulders, steadying him. He notes, distantly, that Boba’s shoulders are broad under his hands, and quite a bit lower than his. 

“Good fight,” Din says.

“Right,” Boba says. “Guess he’s yours.” And he steps aside, gesturing grandly. 

Din barely looks away from Boba as he fires the blaster. The imperial’s body slumps to the ground. 

“So…” Shand starts, “we don’t have to _actually_ behead him, right? We can just bring this weirdo the whole body?” 

Boba and Shand start debating. But Din’s ears are still ringing.

* * *

Then, _after_ that, it all goes to hell. Where things go wrong is with _Boba_. They all pour into Jabba’s Palace, and Shand disappears, leaving them alone to decompress, as usual. 

Din’s feeling unusually exhilarated, after their fight. But he can’t shake that the whole basis for this bounty is a bit gruesome.

They’ll leave the beheading to the client or his agents. The client wanted the guy’s armor, too, so they delivered. There’s nothing valuable about the armor; the guy just wants it as a trophy. 

It’s all a bit unsavory, if you ask Din. 

He says as much. Boba just chuckles. “You never kept a trophy?” 

Din can’t begin to express the levels of his distaste. He’s wiping down his gear after the fight: recalibrating the cam droid, cleaning his disintegrator rifle, oiling his beskar. It’s all laid out on a table in the bar. “You _have_?” 

“Oh, plenty,” Boba says offhandedly, as if he thinks nothing of it, “in the bad old days. Rancor teeth. Lightsabers. Used to wear braided Wookie fur on my pauldrons. Or Padawan braids, depending on who you asked.” 

“Padawan?” 

“Teenage Jedi. Before the Empire slaughtered their order, the human ones, and some of the others if they had hair — they used to wear these little braids until they reached majority.” 

Din goes silent. He wishes his beskar weren’t splayed out in front of him for caretaking. In just the helmet and flight suit, he feels unmoored. A hollow _clink_ rings out as Grogu drops a toy. He burbles, totally at ease where he’s playing on the floor. Before he can really think about it, Din’s stepped between Boba and the child.

Boba continues prepping his gear as if he hasn’t said something horrifying.

“That’s… awful,” Din says, after a long time, thinking again of Grogu, and his powers, and the other children like him disappearing from the world because they can work the same strange magic. 

Boba turns and looks at him seriously, as if he’s just realizing _what_ exactly he said, and to whom. “It wasn’t really Padawan braids,” he says. “That was just the rumor.” 

Din grunts. His mind is full, wondering if someone like Boba is already looking for Grogu at the Empire’s command. 

“You really hate Jedi, don’t you?” Din can’t stop himself from asking.

“Some of them.” Boba shrugs. “Jedi killed a lot of people I loved, over the years. So I did the same. Took down my first one around the first Empire Day. He was full-grown, for the record.” 

Din can do basic math: Boba would’ve been a child, then. _Jedi killed a lot of people I loved_. A child, killing soldiers.

“They got what they deserved, in the end. Not really enough of them left to hate these days, anyway,” Boba adds, as if nothing he’s said matters one bit.

Din thinks back to these past months, the work Boba does on his own, the bounties they’ve taken together so far. Boba doesn’t say it, doesn’t try to justify himself further, but Din can hear what Boba’s not willing to voice: he doesn’t keep trophies, anymore. 

Din’s going to have to… think about this.

Din re-dons his beskar, piece by piece. Each freshly cleaned plate feels like another barrier between him and Boba, vulnerability fading away. Then he gathers Grogu up into his arms. 

The next few times Boba offers him a job, Din turns him down. 

* * *

After a few days, Boba stops offering work. Din starts scaling up his workload again, to make up for the lost income. Though his stream does surprisingly well on its own, now, even without Boba to draw extra eyes. He starts watching Boba’s show as it airs, quietly pondering. It lends no more insight than it did the first time, really: Din’s seen from the inside, how carefully calibrated so much of it is, how Shand slices tape to tell a story that never looks _quite_ like reality. 

It just makes him miss Boba. 

For all that he’s watched Boba for hours, now, on his show at a distance — he _doesn’t_ know the man. The Boba Fett who would slay Jedi children is one big myth, packaged to draw maximum viewership and high-paying clients. But a man behind the armor still cultivated that rumor, turned it into something he could use. 

What does he _really_ know about what’s under that? That they fight well together. That Boba has protected Grogu, in small ways, from the start, without demanding anything. They’re both bounty hunters; they trap and maim and kill for money. They’ve both been a violent hand of imperial power, for one reason or another. 

It shouldn’t disturb Din, to hear Boba talk so casually about letting people believe he slaughtered children. It’s — a _joke_.

But it’s all so _perilously_ close to everything that Din fears, right now. 

It also calls Din’s attention to something he never fully understood before, he’s been so wrapped up in the ways they fall together: During the Empire’s rule, Din was just doing everything he could to survive. But Boba was _thriving_.

Except — _Jedi killed a lot of people I loved_. How young was Boba? Who did they take from him? What path did that put him on, all those years ago?

And it’s not like Boba sprung on Skywalker in a murderous rage. He’d stood down, saved everyone a lot of trouble, looked almost _scared_. 

_I want it to be different_ , Boba had said all those months ago. At the time, the confession felt monumental — but could Din ever really understand what it meant? 

Grogu never seemed to sense any malice from Boba, though. And the kid, if anything, has a hair-trigger response to danger, more likely to see it where it isn’t — like when he choked Cara out during a friendly arm-wrestle, or lifted the Jedi in an admittedly stressful situation, but with very little provocation.

But Grogu also doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by Boba’s sudden absence or the loss of his toys on Slave I. He’s been eating fewer frogs, lately — is that a sign of emotional upset, or just a change in appetite? Maybe he’s tired of frogs. Maybe he’s upset, and Din’s just missing the signs.

Or maybe Din’s projecting. He always wonders what Grogu would say if he could talk. Probably just, _can I have that toy_ or _feed me_. Or would he be full of odd Jedi secrets, whispers from a world that Din can’t perceive?

Is that even how Jedi magic works? 

“What do you think, kid?” Din asks, looking at the last Holo message from Boba — now more than a week old. “Do you trust him?” 

Who is he kidding. Grogu probably measures happiness in food, and working with Boba means more frogs. For the kid, it’s pure and simple. 

Grogu looks at him, eyes wide and dark. Then he reaches up with the strange Jedi hand posture and floats a frog directly out of the aquarium and into his grasping hands. It flails.

 _That’s_ new.

“Whoa,” Din says, “no. you can only have those at mealtime.” 

The frog kicks frantically in Grogu’s mouth, giving its dying throes. Grogu just looks at Din, expression innocent, ears back. _Who, me?_

“Going to have to put a lock on this, too,” Din mutters. He hopes he’s doing this right. He has no clue, really — how to raise a member of a _race of enemy sorcerers_ , how to be a father, how to parent… _whatever_ species Grogu is. Any of it. There’s no guidebook for problems like “my fifty-year-old green alien child used his magic powers to steal food — is he eating too much? Also, I’m worried that the malicious remnants of an overreaching political regime want to steal him.”

Everything would feel so much less overwhelming if he could just start dealing with _one_ of these problems, instead of grappling with them all at once. Maybe he _should_ take Grogu to Skywalker. Grogu might be safer. He thinks back to Skywalkers offer, that bright-eyed, fervent pledge to help them however he could. 

Or maybe Skywalker could help with this child-snatching problem? But he’s New Republic, same as the rest of them. He’s heard it so many times, during the destruction of his hometown, the glassing of Mandalore, every brutal tragedy that’s come since. _Our hands are tied. There’s nothing we can do._ Or, _this bill just has to pass the senate. Give us six months._

If you want something done, you have to stick to people who _can_ get things done. People who are willing to do what they need to, to protect their own. 

Grogu toddles over to him where he’s sitting on the bed, lays a hand on his leg. 

And Din knows, with a sudden clarity, what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just posted [a Boba-POV outtake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29615967/chapters/73404516) set after this chapter. If you want, you know. A bit of pain. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I have been tearing my hair out over this chapter for about three weeks, so I hope you enjoyed. Talk to me (or yell at me) on Tumblr at [neverfeedthesarcophagi](http://neverfeedthesarcophagi.tumblr.com).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din has a test for Boba: Help him find whatever's taking the children. It doesn't go as planned -- but not because either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Catch some added tags -- there's a bit of angst coming down the pipeline, but I promise there will be a happy ending. (I also added a chapter to the chapter count, so that, uh, there's some fluffy wind-down time after things go wrong for a bit.) 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading. Reactions to the last chapter were SO fun. :) And I'm extremely excited to share this chapter. Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Also, [stopcryingyoullrust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopcryingyoullrust/pseuds/stopcryingyoullrust) wrote a [post-chapter 8 fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29890590) in which Din discovers RPF fic of himself, set in this universe. It's hilarious and melancholic in turns, and had me cackling all the way through. Go check it out!

The saloon doors creak on their hinges as Din swings his way through into Jabba’s Palace, trying to look less awkward than he feels. He’s got his hands on his hips, his beskar’s freshly cleaned, he _might_ have laundered his cape. _Everything’s normal_ , he tries to project.

And fails, apparently. 

Shand takes one look at him, slings her rifle over her shoulder, says, “I’m out,” salutes Boba, and bails. 

Boba looks… the same as ever in his Tusken-style robes. Dark eyes, hair softly curling over his ears. A fresh side-shave that lets scars peek through the shorter crop. Din has to remind himself it’s barely been more than a week since they saw each other — a totally normal amount of time. 

Boba makes an odd, aborted movement, then instead reaches for a shot glass from behind the bar. Just one. He pours himself a spotchka, then leaves it on the bar and starts polishing what look like already-clean glasses. 

Din realizes, after a moment, that Boba had almost grabbed his helmet, then thought better of it. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Boba says quietly, eyes fixed on the glass in front of him. 

Well, Din wasn’t really, for sure, either. 

Instead of answering, Din says, “Do a job with me. Off-camera. No stream.”

“Sure,” Boba says without skipping a beat. 

“You didn’t even take time to think about that,” Din says. “I’m serious.” 

“I already thought about it,” Boba responds. “I’m serious, too.” 

“Okay then,” Din says, not really sure what to do now that the question he’d so built up to became a “yes” so easily. He has a whole spiel planned, a set of questions and answers — most of them tests, really, to try to pry his fingers gently beneath Boba’s beskar and get a little bit more of a sense of what’s _real_ under there, and what’s just bluster. 

“You have a job in mind?” Boba asks. 

“Well… it’s not a _job_ exactly,” Din says, “and it wouldn’t _pay_ , per se.” 

“Okay,” Boba says, as if he isn’t the man who spent more than a decade double-crossing employers for the highest payer, on a public stage. Din watches Boba watch him: dark eyes dart to his blaster, his rifle, the empty space where Grogu’s sling often settles across Din’s hip. He’s avoiding Din’s eyes. 

“Stop agreeing so easily,” Din says crossly. 

“I’m just agreeable.” 

“You’re not, though,” Din says.

“No,” Boba agrees softly. “I’m not.”

“It involves Jedi, maybe,” Din says. “Jedi children.”

He tries to search out Boba’s feelings in eyes, but he’s still avoiding Din’s gaze, expression closed off. He’s not sure when he stopped looking away from Boba’s unhelmeted face, but he realizes he’s so used to seeing Boba’s emotions play out in front of him; now that Boba’s locked them away, he doesn’t know what to do.

“That’s fine. It’s for Grogu, isn’t it?” 

Din nods. Something feels thick and hot in his throat. 

“Then I’ll do it,” Boba says. “It’s the least I could do. Consider it… a gift. For my poor taste.” 

And that’s it, there it is, right there, the heart of the matter: Boba _acts_ , like Din. He won’t apologize — what’s the point? Words are useless. He’ll just… help. Sure, he does what he must, per his own code. Din may not exactly understand what he wants, or what brought him here, just like Boba doesn’t seem to fully comprehend his creed. But they share this, at the core of things. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like Din’s making the _right_ choice, instead of just getting battered from bad to worse. 

* * *

When they find the thing, it’s mostly an accident. 

Din at first plans to revisit the sites of the disappearances with Boba, get his eye on the remnants. The man’s a superior tracker, and has access to equipment that Din can’t afford even with his recent windfalls. He’d have to hoard for years just to come close. 

But one of his contacts has gotten wind of the first signs _before_ the disappearances — whispers of a strange miracle rocking a small town. But the family is still there, last Din’s contact heard. That admittedly might not be the case anymore; information travels slow, sometimes. 

It’s another point of reference, though, and a place to start. 

At the first home, they realize quickly they’re already too late. Whatever happened, must have happened recently; people in the town landing bay had seen the family as recently as that morning.

But when they arrive at the home, the door is ever-so-slightly ajar.

Din peers in the window to see the same eerily untouched assembly of bowls, an assortment of slouched pillows — a place once lived-in and hollowed out. It’s not locked, just as before. They creep in quietly, under dim moonlight, and begin to search.

They hear it first, a quiet creak of boot-leathers, muffled steps that hit a creaking stair. Descending, from the upstairs.

Something that has lingered. 

Before Din can even process the noise picked up by his helmet, Boba grabs his arm and pulls him down to a crouch behind a kitchen countertop. They can see it, but it can’t see them — Din couldn’t have chosen the angle better himself.

And then: a silhouette. At first Din thinks it’s Skywalker, and his instinct is to hide. That first impression is wrong, but the second might still be right.

It’s dressed much like the Jedi, in dark robes, head hooded, hands gloved. As if it’s hiding itself from the world. It grasps an odd shape in its hand, an elegant twist of metal with some resemblance to the Jedi’s saber.

It turns at the base of the stairs, starts rummaging through something. Its breaths sound loud and steady, rasping through the room.

Din holds his breath and stays crouched. This isn’t just a vagrant scavenging for spare credits. The houses he has visited before have remained oddly untouched, un-ransacked — for a reason. 

They _need_ to avoid this person. Every instinct in him screams it. 

But it doesn’t matter that they’re out of sight. 

Din has no idea what tips it off. It pauses for a moment in its search, and then… its head turns, slowly, on the post of its body. A masked face tilts at them, wreathed in metal. Its breaths stop, suddenly. 

The quiet in the room feels like death. 

And then it launches itself at their hiding place; the metal in their hand blares to life in a shear of red. The sudden light would’ve blinded Din if he weren’t wearing a visor. Before he can think about it, he has risen to his feet and his forearms are up in an L, right arm bracing the left as it cuts off a horizontal swing that would have lopped off Boba’s head. 

The impact vibrates through every single bone in his body. 

The thing takes a quick breath. “ _Beskar_ ,” it spits, at once furious and ice-cold. 

Every single system in Din’s body revolts at the sound of its voice. His hair stands on end; blood flushes to his extremities; every single muscle seems to shout at him _run_. His head pounds, his eyes hurt, everything is pain, his vision is rending — but if he drops his arm, Boba’s right there in the path of the blade.

Sparks spray from his armor as the thing digs in, getting ready to pull back for another swing. His head howls.

“Oh,” it says, “you have one of the _children._ Where, I wonder?” Its face is glinting, unmoving metal, but there’s a smile in its voice.

And then Boba is rising up behind him, blaster already drawn and pointed. Six bolts slam from his blaster, rapidfire, and Din barely has time to register that the recoil must be _brutal_ at that pace as the thing becomes a blur of motion and red light. The bolts scatter back; one hits Din directly in the chest, blasting the air out of him. Something shatters behind him; another bolt _thunks_ into a cabinet in a blast of heat and char. 

But the gunfire has pushed the creature back from them, clearing a path from where they stand to the door.

For a moment, Din stands frozen. His brain struggles to make sense of what he’s seeing. It’s — _not_ Skywalker, he’s already realized this. Instead, something like Skywalker, but the inverse: a hole in the world, where he is present. A dark, sucking vortex, where Skywalker is bright. The pain behind Din’s eyes turns bright, pounding. 

Boba has started firing again, and again, and again. The creature’s falling onto the defence, spinning its blade in a blinding circle. Feathers puff up from the stuffed couch; another bolt pings off Din’s shoulder, and he barely has enough time to brace and keep his balance. 

It flicks its spare hand, and a bookshelf flies off the wall toward him. Din sidesteps it. 

For a moment, Din thinks incoherently, _It has to die_. He has to kill it.

And then Boba’s low voice is ripping through the blasterfire, taut with warning, “ _Run_. Just _fucking run_.” 

Din’s already sprinting for it, peripheral vision trained on the creature. 

They’re both breathing harder than they should be as they run back to the ship, keeping close to walls and heaps of stinking trash in dark alleys. Din’s knees wobble as he stumbles onto _Slave I_.

It doesn’t seem to be following them. But — Din can’t shake the horror in him, the grip of dread. It’s around his chest, his throat. He can barely inflate his chest all the way; his breaths come shallow and quick. It _feels_ like it still sees them.

 _It knew about Grogu_. He _told_ it about Grogu, somehow — or it took the knowledge from him. 

“Fuck,” Boba says, gasping heavily. He’s pulled his helmet off, bent over to catch his breath and Din starts to pilot them home. “I thought these fuckers were all dead.” 

Din doesn’t ask _what_ it is. He doesn’t want to know. 

“Does that mean you know how to kill them?” Din asks hopefully, because right now _solving_ the problem feels easier than trying to comprehend that thing, and what was under that vicious mask. 

Later he will have to think about what it means, that such a thing crept through the home of a recently stolen child. But right now his mind recoils from understanding.

“Slugs. Shear right through those lightsabers, no matter how good they are at using them. Or lightsabers.” 

“Don’t suppose we have any?” 

Something dark hovers in Boba’s voice, a tone Din has never heard from him. “Oh,” he says, “I have _plenty_.” 

* * *

That thing made him feel cold, and alone, and scared in ways that Din does not fully understand. It’s strange, because nothing really _happened_ — the whole incident was less upsetting (and physically damaging) than the entirety of the run-in with Solo. It shouldn’t have ruffled him this much. Especially with Boba there to watch his back. 

Yet it feels like a blanket has been thrown over all his senses, like he has gone cold and stiff and strange, or else everything around him has stepped very far away. 

He thinks, distantly, that if Boba hadn’t been there, hadn’t known _exactly_ what to do, he’d probably be bleeding out right now, chopped to pieces and abandoned on the floor of an empty kitchen.

Grogu would — it knew about Grogu. Din is already mapping the path back to the apartment, typing in Peli’s comm code to warn her. His fingers shake. 

“What if it tracked us,” Din says, “I have to get to —” 

“No one can track me,” Boba says shortly. 

Din believes him.

“You can’t go anywhere like this,” Boba continues. “He’s fine.” 

“But —”

Boba sighs. “Okay. I’ll go and bring him back. Make sure he’s safe. But you’d crash into a wall. Those things, they can really mess you up.”

 _Things_ , not _thing_. Implying that there are _more_ than just one of those awful wraiths. 

Din staggers out of _Slave I_ , slumps into a booth at Jabba’s. The plastic squeaks. 

“We have a shower in the back,” Boba says. “You seem like you need — some space to calm down.”

“Mm,” Din says. He can’t imagine moving, sending commands to his sluggish limbs. Nothing in him feels right. Boba doesn’t sit; he hovers, anxious, like an overly invested mother cuckoo hen. After a moment, Din says: “You’ve seen that creature before.” 

“Something like it.” No further explanation is forthcoming. “I’m used to them, really,” Boba adds after a long pause, explaining nothing.

“Do you just feel like this all the time? Or did you become —” Din waves his hand for the right word “— immune? It’s just —” He’s pretty sure his words are starting to slur.

“This seems — whatever’s happening to you — it seems worse. Than usual.” Boba’s brows furrow in concern. His hands flex nervously. “I think it did something, when it talked to you. Fucking _Jedi_.”

“That was a — that _wasn’t_ a —”

Boba’s face just looks thunderous, and Din can see the confirmation in his eyes. 

And he had thought it, right there in front of it: The thing was like Skywalker. It had the laser sword. It threw a bookshelf twenty paces with the twitch of a hand.

Like Skywalker. Like Grogu. 

But unlike anything else he has ever seen, or felt. It — it reached into his _head_? And it plucked out everything he cares about.

Boba is saying something — “Sith, an — Inquisitor? But there’s barely a difference. All bastards” — and the words make no sense.

Din’s not totally sure what happens after that — everything sort of tilts to the side, and colors flash past him, and his helmet is squished against his face and he has an eye-full of the garish bright-red bench he used to be upright on. 

“Whoa. I’m going to — come on,” Boba says, “up you go,” and slides an arm under Din’s, wraps around his back. Pulls him upright, then to his feet. Their beskar clinks. Din’s helmet knocks against Boba’s uncovered head, until Boba rights them both. Din’s struck by how warm and solid Boba feels, after the cold. He’s just a bit shorter than Din, the perfect height to lean on. Din tries to pull himself up, put some distance between them, but his knees feel weak.

“None of that,” Boba chides. Din’s limbs knock into each other, uncoordinated and lax. They make their way to the fresher, step by agonizing step. Boba’s hands are a flash of fire where they settle on the flightsuit, propping him up. 

Boba steps aside nervously when they reach the shower. “You good?” 

Din waves a hand. “I can figure the rest out,” he says, and reaches for his right vambrace, then misses. He tries again. Why isn’t his arm where it’s supposed to be? 

Boba watches him quietly for a moment, eyes darting to the door. As if he’d rather be anywhere else. 

But then: “Is it okay if I help?” Boba asks. “I wouldn’t — except I think you might need help.”

Din pauses, mind buzzing. But all he can think about is how _warm_ Boba’s hands feel. He gives a short, sharp nod. “You just — start with the —” 

Boba shushes him with a hand. “I know how your beskar works.” 

And he sets about removing it, briskly, efficiently. It’s clear he knows what he’s doing, even though his armor and Din’s don’t have the same latches and straps. The pauldrons unhook first. Then he loosens the cuisse from his chest, lifts the flak jacket over his head; next his cloak falls from his shoulders, puddling on the bathroom floor.

He doesn’t even come close to brushing the helmet, not once. Din feels a rush of relief, just knowing that he won’t have to explain, to justify. He wouldn’t trust many others with this. Maybe _no one_ else outside the covert, especially with how wobbly and _confused_ Din feels right now.

Then Boba kneels. Unstraps Din’s thigh plates, loosens his boots. In another situation, Din might find this all — distracting. But instead the gentle caretaking just starts to work a warmth back into his veins. Boba rises back up to his feet, reaching for Din’s elbow to work loose a vambrace. 

Then he peels off Din’s gloves, slowly, carefully, finger by finger. Din fights to squash a shiver, counsels his body into stillness, as Boba’s fingers brush his own.

Boba looks Din dead in the visor, meets his eyes through the tinted view of the HUD. Din can’t make out the expression.

“There,” Boba says, voice a bit rough. He clears his throat. “You’re done.” 

Din isn’t afraid of death. He faces it regularly. Peli knows what to do with Grogu; it’s not ideal, Grogu would _miss_ him, the covert would struggle, but death is a logical outcome. He has planned for it. He will walk with his people in _manda_ when the time comes, join them on that endless march. 

But somehow that thing — whatever it has in store for him seems… _worse_. That pain in his head — as if it was _ripping_ through him with jagged claws. 

Boba doesn’t pull away immediately. They’re facing each other. His hands are a flare of heat at Din’s elbows. Boba is so warm, and Din is still so cold. He can’t — 

Din falls forward toward him, burrows his helmet down into Boba’s neck. He’s shaking, and he can’t stop himself. Boba’s arms come around him slowly, hesitantly. Din screws his eyes shut. He worries, for a panicked moment, that he might be about to cry. 

“Close your eyes,” he says, desperately.

Boba swallows so loudly Din can hear it; he can even feel the Adam’s apple bob against the curve of his shoulder, where Din’s practically folded over him.

“Okay,” Boba says. And he does. 

“Can I —” 

“Whatever you need,” Boba cuts him off.

Before he can really think, Din tips his helmet up, just a little. And he touches his lips to Boba’s.

It’s barely a kiss. More just a dry press. For a moment, Boba’s lips are so _soft_ against his. The scar tissue feels tight, smooth — but still — 

He just needs to feel something _good_.

Then Boba is stepping back, clearing his throat. He doesn’t touch Din’s helmet, but he grasps the hand that’s holding it up. Pulls it gently towards him. Din’s helmet settles back down over his face. Boba stares at Din’s bare hand, still holding it between both of his own, as if he has no idea what to do with it. 

This is the first time their bare hands have properly touched.

“I don’t think you — uh —” He runs a hand through his hair. Din’s hand falls back to his side. “You’re not all right, right now — just —” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “You need to. Wake yourself up.” 

Boba steps further out of Din’s reach. He demonstrates how the knobs work, all business. 

The beskar has been laid out carefully, piece by piece, on the fresher counter. His cloak splays out on the floor. Looking for anything other than Boba’s face, Din’s gaze finds himself in the mirror. Still-helmeted, beskar off, in just a flightsuit, it’s clear how much broader the armor makes him look than he really is. The helmet bobs comically on his neck. He is just a small, shivering man standing bare in the back fresher of a bar that doesn’t even open to the public. 

It’s real water, a luxury in this backward town that has no functioning municipal water system, he says. The instructions barely phase Din; the words pass straight through his head. 

Then Boba leaves Din to pull himself back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know shit went down because there are 43 em-dashes in this chapter. I hope none of this was TOO surprising, as I've been trying to build toward it with hints and clues basically since Ch 1. >:)
> 
> A couple of people have asked about Boba's hair. It's heavily inspired by [the talented frostedbasilisk's lovely Bobadin art](https://frostedbasilisk.tumblr.com/post/644586094355169280/my-mind-is-focused-on-a-younger-looking-boba-with). <3 
> 
> In other news, I'm participating in Mandomera week! Check out [my fic series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2203575) if you're interested in more stuff to tide you over until next week.
> 
> Or yell at me [on tumblr](http://neverfeedthesarcophagi.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Parsec Archives](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29890590) by [stopcryingyoullrust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopcryingyoullrust/pseuds/stopcryingyoullrust)




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